


In The Sky

by karauna



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Fluff and Humor, Gen, I love him, Magical Jaskier, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sort Of, apathetic witch mom and exclamation! mark! sunshine child!!, commence mutual simultaneous adoption, dont come into any fic i make and hope it sticks to canon, he's an idiot, i will only disappoint you, if you want me to stop writing about loving familial bonds, jaskier is just too sweet, just fun all around really, operation: give yennefer happiness for gods sake holy shit, such an idiot, you'll see trust me, youll have to pry this keyboard from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23356012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karauna/pseuds/karauna
Summary: In Kerack, there's a magic-shop with a purple banner hanging over the door.Or:Yennefer is on vacation.That is to say, she got tired of being in Rinde. After a solid ten or so years as mayor, she passed leadership down and then left with a flick of her wavy, luxurious hair. And now she's here, in Kerack. Selling spells. Making potions. Doing... things. Important things."I'm closed, can't you read?"Very important things that this rascal is rudely interrupting."Nuh-uh, not a word! Say, are there dragons in here?" The boy asks, blue eyes shining like moon-discs, "are there phoenixes? Faeries? Serpents? Can you make the sun rise faster? What about winged shoes? Is it true that mages stay pretty because they have mud-baths? Can I have a pet dragon? That one's important, I really want one."She pinches the bridge of her nose. "No. To all of the above, it's a no."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 146
Kudos: 833





	1. Watch it, sparky!

**Author's Note:**

> i couldnt stop myself

Jaskier is ten years old, and he's seen many things most can't imagine.

He's seen murder, theft and darkness. He's been witness to mankind's deepest shadows; the roiling underbelly that overflowed with sin, crime and all sorts of debauchery. Blah, blah blah, stupid stuff- something about murder. Boo.

Honestly, he thinks it's all rather boring and stupid. If you ask him, he thinks criminals are stupid. Why stab people to collect shiny pretty coins when you could just... get a _farm_ or something. Easy peasy! You don't see Jaskier running around robbing people, now do you?

No, sir, no you do not. He's a man of dignity! And integrity! _And-_ -

 _Ooooh,_ look! A shiny thing! Jaskier crouches down, brushing away the dirt as he pulls out a shard of colored glass. _Ooooooooh, it's_ _glittery--_

He likes shiny things. They remind him of sunrises, and sunrises remind him of farms. And farms are _cool_. The horses are pretty, the wheat looks like stalks of gold, and the boy who lives there sneaks him apples every Tuesday. They were juicy and crunchy and just, _mmmmm, so good--_

Actually, you know what? Forget the farm, just get _friends_. 

Jaskier finally comes to the grand conclusion that adults are like his shoes: they're stupid and gross and full of holes. Big holes. _Smelly_ _holes_. 

...Then again, maybe adults can't make friends. Maybe they get allergies when they're around other people. He remembers seeing this one guy in a tavern, with shiny white hair and shiny gold eyes and shiny armor and then he just-- he just _sat_ in the corner. The whole night. Alone. It was sad. It was _really_ sad.

Jaskier totally laughed at him through the window and called him a loser. Then he realised he was trying to be _nicer_ to people, and stopped.

...Does it count if he still calls him a loser in his mind? 

Uh.

What a _lovely_ _, emotionally riveting_ _gentleman_.

There, that's better.

Jaskier wipes the dust off his worn pants as he stands, grinning down at the sliver of blue gleaming away in his hands. He tilts it around, ooo'ing and aaa'ing as a bunch of other colors reflect off its razor-sharp edge.

 _Cool_.

He tucks it away in his pocket, rocking on the back of his heels before jumping back into motion. Jaskier happily swings his arms around, whistling a jolly tune as he skips from stall to stall, waving at the merchants. They ignore him, as per usual, because they're _boring_ and _stupid_ and he didn't even want to talk to them _anyway_ , soooo--

Something purple catches his eye. A new shop, nestled in the space between the pawnshop and the traders' where an alley used to be, stares back at him. The long windows, gleaming and spit-shined, are lined with pretty glowing bottles and baubles. What actually caught his attention, though, is the banner hanging above the polished redwood door.

_Woah._

It's floating. Like... _actually_ floating. Jaskier picks up a pebble from the dirt-path, testing the weight, before lobbing it at the strip of cloth. It quivers in the air, grinding to a sudden stop as sparks of violet crackle around it. Then, as if possessed, the rock jolts around and smacks him vindictively on the noggin.

...Ow.

He rubs his forehead, glaring as the pebble drops to his feet innocently, and Jaskier takes a big step away- _just in case_. He stares up at the banner, blinking owlishly as it ripples against an invisible gust of wind. Black cursive letters appear over its surface, and he can't help but gape as _'go away, brat'_ writes itself on the fabric.

It's challenging him.

He blinks. He rubs his eyes. It's still there. It has, _'are you blind'_ written across it now. _Dude_.

That's _rad_.

It's still challenging him, though.

But it's _rad_.

It's kind of being super mean to him, though.

But it's _so. Rad._

Jaskier stares at the door. The door stares back. He scratches his chin, hesitating. Then, he remembers the shiny things in the window-sill. It can't hurt to take a _teeeeny-tiny-itty-bitty_ gander at them, right? Right. Of course he's right, he's _the_ Jaskier. He's always right.

_'Do it, wimp.'_

The banner is, _pardon his language,_ a massive _arsehole_.

He opens the door anyway.

* * *

Yennefer is on vacation.

That is to say, she got tired of being in Rinde. After a solid ten or so years as mayor, she passed leadership down and then left with a flick of her wavy, luxurious hair. And now she's here, in Kerack. Selling spells. Making potions. Doing... things. _Important_ things. 

"I'm closed, can't you read?"

Very important things that this _rascal_ is rather rudely interrupting.

"Nuh-uh, not a word. Say, are there dragons in here?" The boy asks, blue eyes shining like moon-discs, "are there _phoenixes?_ Faeries? Serpents? Can you make the sun rise faster? What about winged shoes? Is it true that mages stay pretty because they have mud-baths? Can I have a pet dragon? That one's important, I really want one."

She pinches the bridge of her nose. _"No._ To all of the above, it's a _no_."

Well. The mud-bath part is _sort-of true_ , but if anyone else finds out about that she'll kill them and then herself.

"Awww... Darn."

Like water off a duck's back, he hardly seems phased. He bounces around, staring at her stores of mandrake root and the vial of aether sitting on her counter. The cauldron of fifth essence bubbles away on the hearth, and the boy stares down at the simmering green liquid with delight. " _Woooah,_ " he awes, "look at all this stuff! Wow, you must be super cool. Say, can you teach me how to make this stuff? Come on, _please?_ I'll give you the shiny thing I found!"

...Good gods.

He pulls out a broken piece of bottle glass, holding it like it's the greatest treasure in the world. "It's pretty, just like you!"

And-- okay. Fine.

He's adorable. Sue her.

Yennefer tries to glower. " _No_. Are you buying anything? Where is your family? How did you even _get_ _in here_." She's incredibly sure that she'd recast her illusion over the shop this morning. A little spell that would carefully coax the spectator to ignore the building and forget it was there. Sweet. Simple. Infallible. Until it failed. 

Hm.

So, maybe not quite infallible, then. Bugger.

"Probably not, I'm disowned, and I walked through the door. All in that order."

Excuse me. " _What_."

He blinks. "The... the front door? The one with the banner? And, you know, that thing is _very rude._ You need to teach it manners. I would, but I can't reach it. It threw a stone at me- a _stone!_ "

She nurses the headache pulsing behind her eyes and flicks her fingers. Yennefer doesn't feel a lick of guilt as an invisible force gently nudges him out of the building. The kid stumbles back through the door, tripping over his own feet and he squawks indignantly at her. "W-wait a minute, but I still need a pet dragon! Come on, _please!-- oh no."_

The boy falls, head over heels. Yennefer barely knows what she's doing before her magic envelopes him protectively, holding him in a gentle cradle.

Gods, she's turning _soft_.

He blinks, eyes wider than discs as he hovers inches above the ground. A wide, sunny grin stretches over his face as she twitches her fingers, placing him soundly on his own two feet before snapping her magic away. Cornflower blue eyes dart from the ground to her hand, then to her face. He smiles, brighter than the rising dawn, and opens his mouth--

"Can I stay--"

Yennefer slams the door closed in his face. Through the wood, she hears his muffled voice. 

"That's okay, I'll come back tomorrow! With _apples!_ My name's Julian, by the way, but call me Jaskier!"

Fuck this, she's _leaving_.

( _She doesn't.)_

* * *

Jaskier shows up with bright green apples and a sunny smile.

"Hi--!"

Yennefer grabs the apples and closes the door.

"-Wait a minute--"

She creaks the door open a crack and, because she's very gracious and nice and kind, tosses an apple at him. She sees the barest sliver of his twinkling eyes, and ignores the warmth in her chest.

"-Thanks! Can I--"

The witch kicks the door close before he finishes speaking. When Yennefer properly opens up the shop later on in the day, she greets her customers absently, and wonders where the boy lives now.

She hopes he never visits her again.

(Not really.)

* * *

"Witch lady!"

"Oh for gods' sake--"

"-I brought pears this time!"

"I prefer berries."

"I'll get those next! I'll be back in a couple days with them, I never fail!"

"The wait is agony. Try not to break your neck."

"Oh, pretty things! Can I touch it?"

"If you're going to keep coming back and touching things, you're going to make yourself _useful_. Get over here and help me make these potions, but if you screw up, it's coming out of your coin-purse."

"Sure thing, lady!"

* * *

He never goes away. _Never_.

"I found berries! A bear was eating them, and she nearly tried to eat me, but then I talked to her and we became friends _and_ she carried me back home! _Look, berries!"_

Yennefer grabs the door-handle and yanking it open. Jaskier's standing there, looking filthier than usual, with a load of covered fruit balanced precariously atop his head. "I got enough for everyone! You can give all the leftovers to your customers when they come through."

" _Yay._ " She drawls, plucking one of the plump fruits out of the fraying basket. Gazing at it astutely, she arches a prim eyebrow at him. "You do realize those are grapes, not berries, yes?"

Jaskier blinks. He wilts. "Oh..."

She stares down at him. Jaskier couldn't be any older than ten, with dry, oily brown hair and dirt-caked skin. His clothes, what could've once passed for noble-wear, has been worked down into embellished scraps, and she can see the press of his ribs against his skin through the holes littering his shirt.

Small droplets of water cling to his eyelashes, eyes dark and stormy. There's a cut on his cheek, leaking blood, and it mingles with the salty rivulets tumbling from his eyes. He looks pathetic.

It reminds her of a creaky barn door, four marks and a farm. Something in her... _twists_.

She thinks it's guilt. It feels like sludge and mud between her toes. It scratches against her skin like coarse hair and hay.

_Disgusting._

She doesn't know how to get rid of it. It's stubborn, lodged in the depths of her stomach like gruel.

_Weak._

She doesn't want to _hurt_ him. It's... strange. She doesn't understand.

He's standing there, crying, and her chest aches.

_She doesn't understand._

Opening the door all the way, Yennefer crouches until she's staring eye-to-eye with him. Carefully, she reaches out and ruffles his copper locks. "Thank you," she smiles earnestly, a hint of warmth peeking through shuttered violet eyes. "They're exactly what I started craving this morning, they're perfect."

Jaskier smiles. It's _shaky_ and _weak_ but _there_ , and the roiling of her stomach eases away.

He talks and talks and talks to her all morning, with grand gestures and vibrant laughter. All too soon, Kerack slowly comes alive, and Jaskier scuttles away, citing adventures and daring-do. Yennefer makes charms, conjures spells and brews potions for heart-ached villagers, then steps out to close the shop.

Jaskier's curled up on her doorstep, curled up and shivering in the cold. His small shoulders quiver, chest sputtering and the night's wind howls eerily through the sign-posts.

She flips the sign and closes the door.

 _(Outside, Jaskier lets out a sigh of contentment. The shop's banner is enchanted and warm, pulsing with a gentle heat as it wraps around him lovingly. Above his head, the entrance lamp_ _sways gently in the breeze.)_

* * *

Jaskier spends most nights on her doorsteps, swaddled in her shop's banner as his quiet snores fill the dead night air.

She refuses to admit that it's soothing. It's _annoying_ and _disgusting_ and she _hates it_.

_(One night, Yennefer wakes up and the early morning is as quiet as the grave. She waits for the familiar sound of soft breathing outside her door, holding the air in her lungs. Her heart beats thunderously, louder than lightning, and she starts to panic--_

_Then, she hears the thud of footsteps on dirt. There's a beat of silence that's quickly broken by a loud yawn, followed by the ruffle of fabric. A weight settles against her door, the wood creaking in protest, and moments later, Jaskier's snores fill the air again._

_Yennefer doesn't sleep for the rest of the night. She keeps her ear pressed to the window, hand against her heart, and_ _listens to his steady breaths.)_

* * *

Yennefer, on her rare days off, likes to sit by the window-seat and feel the sun on her face. She breathes in the familiar scent of magic, the tang of moley-arrow mixing pleasantly with the nigredo she's making in her mortar. She closes her eyes, finger-tips pressed against the warm glass as birdsong brushes her ears.

Jaskier's voice is untrained and loud, scraping against nature's symphony painfully. Somewhere over the treetops, she's sure a bird just dropped dead from his screeching.

 _"Twinkle twinkle little-_ something about a star, uh- _I wonder what you aaare!_ \--"

The blacksmith kicks his door open. "Will you _shut the--"_ He's interrupted by a sudden gust of wind, the force shoving him back indoors as his door swings shut in his face. There's the suspicious sound of a lock clicking into place, then abrupt silence.

Yennefer lowers her hand. Her eyes dart to Jaskier, and he's smiling like the sun itself.

He goes back to singing- _screaming, really-_ and she hums along.

* * *

She packed up her stores and her herbs. It was time for her to leave, there was no more business to be had in Kerack. They all either got everything they wanted off of her or stopped buying once tales of the raven-eyed sorceress reached them.

Nothing tied her to this place. She has no reason to stay.

She dawdles. She combs her hair three times. She applies, reapplies and repeats her eye shadow routine five times. She coifs her hair again. She wipes down the tables twice.

It's a very dusty morning. She wipes down a lot of things twice.

Yennefer's in the middle of dusting the cauldron when there's a cheerful rap on the door.

"Miss! Lady! Witch! My best friend-- _open up,_ I brought berries! Actual berries this time, I promise, I got someone else to double-check and everything. Let me _iiiiin--!"_

She rolls her eyes, _took him long enough_ , and opens up the door. Yennefer stares at the contents of his basket and just shakes her head. She's smiling.

It's strange. She never used to before.

"Jaskier, those are cherries."

"Oh, _come on!"_

Yennefer laughs, soft and incredulous, as the boy pouts up at her. Later in the day, he presses that same sliver of blue glass from their meeting into her palm. "It's pretty," he says _very_ seriously, "so you need to take care of it, okay? Just like how I take care of you. Don't you worry, none of those big ugly doofuses from the tavern will mess with you while I'm here! But you gotta look after that in return, okay? It's--" Jaskier leans forward, whispering loudly as his eyes shine like stars, _"It's_ _magical!"_

"Oh?" She holds his hand between her fingers, cradling it like it's made from diamond, "And how do you know that?"

Jaskier's palm is rough with dirt but gentle with childhood. His fingers are short and bony, pressing up against thin stretches of flesh. He's just so _small_.

He smiles with thin cheeks and buck teeth and dimples, all the wonder of childhood sparkling off of him. "It reminds me of you, and that's how I know, thank you very much! It's, uh- like a hoard! Dragon hoards aren't just pretty shiny things, and they get super angry when someone hurts them! You're like my hoard, and because dragons are cool, they'll protect you cos' they help others, and uh- stuff! Dragons don't like it when people break special things, y'know."

Her brows shoot up.

She's made from lava and wrath, a fate crafted from her own two hands, wrenched free from Destiny's grasp. She's heat and Chaos and screaming; the pulsing of blood in her chest, haunted by four marks and a father's baleful stare. She's ferocity and viciousness and possession and power and _beauty_ _\--_

Yennefer didn't need to be kept safe from the world. The world needed to be kept safe from _her_.

This boy, this _child,_ she could break him in the same breath that she could kill a kikimore. He's fragile, weak and frail, with ratty hair and scraped knees and mud between his toes. He constantly makes noise, hearing without listening, talking without thinking. He's everything that she _hates._

_And yet._

"Yennefer. My name is Yennefer."

_(She cups his tiny hand between her palms, carefully pulling the sliver of glass from his fingers with painstakingly reverent slowness. "I'll never let it go," she says grimly, "It'll be with me at all times, I promise."_

_He smiles up at her._

_"I know.")_

She spends the morning talking to Jaskier, teaching him about What Not To Do When Surrounded By Drowners, then shoos him away to play with the kids that knock on her door. Yennefer flips the sign from open to closed, then unpacks all of her belongings.

She keeps the small sliver of glass tucked safely in her pocket, a reassuring weight in her robe's folds.

(The next day, it dangles from her neck on a chain of silver, wrapped in a dragon's black wings.

She wears it with pride.)

* * *

"Wow, that's so pretty! Did you make it yourself?"

"A coven of dragons made it for me. Why-ever would you ask, brat?"

 _"It's_ _so cool!"_

_"I suppose it is. Do you want one?_

"S-sorta? Dragons are cool and all, but, um-- I-I think one made by you would be, you know, _cooler_."

"I... see. Perhaps. Now, get over here. Do you know what lunar-shards are good for?"

" _Uhhh..._ Cultist rituals! No, wait- it's for making witcher potions, right? Actually, hang on, no! It's for uh-! _Um,_ it's on the _tip of my tongue-_ wait no, it's definitely for cultist rituals. Am I right? Am I- am I- am I--?"

 _"No._ "

* * *

Yennefer makes him one.

Unlike hers, his is gold and ruby, blazing with color as a piece of pretty blue glass in the center is enveloped in a pair of copper feathered wings.

"Why's it different?" Jaskier stares at the necklace, lips parted while he awes over the shiny metals as they sit on her footstep. Over Kerack's rooftops, a golden sun starts to rise.

Humming quietly, she lets her fingers wrap around the necklace on her neck. It's hard and lifeless against her skin, sharp and violent and _cold._

"You don't want to be like me, Jaskier."

He stares at her. Then, as if nothing in the world could stop him, the boy scoots closer to her and leans against her shoulder. He doesn't talk, just lets his warmth sink through the cloth on her shoulder.

"Okay," Jaskier agrees softly, "Okay."

She doesn't know why, but Yennefer wraps her arm around his thin shoulders and pulls him against her side.

(Her magic wraps around him, carving the familiar essence of earth and sunshine deep into her bone marrow. Usually, It's moments like these that she feels as if the world was at her fingertips, burning in hellfire and rife with flame.

Instead, she just feels content.)

* * *

She discovers that the kid is a horrible gossip. 

"Did you know," he gasps animatedly, voice muffled through the wooden door, "that Tammy is _cheating_ on her husband? With the cook! The _castle's_ _cook! -_ And yes, I don't blame her, if I was married to that horrible gripey old man, I'd cheat too, but _still-- Oh!_ Also, I may or may not have overheard some things that may or may not interest you."

Yennefer rolls her eyes, grinding a bundle of herbs into powder. "Has it ever occurred to you that all your eavesdropping will get you in trouble?" She pretends she's not worried.

( _She is.)_

* * *

A scream wakes her up in the middle of the night and, before she's really coherent enough to understand, Yennefer's dressed and leaping out the door as Chaos sings around her hands. Jaskier's nowhere to be seen, her store banner lying abandoned on the doorsteps. Dread weighs down on her stomach like lead, and the foreign feeling of _panic_ stretches over her skin.

She steps out onto the street, brows knit together while a snarl twists her lips. Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.

_Jaskier._

Prowling down the street, Yennefer's shoulders are tight with coiled tension. The only thing she hears is the sound of gravel crunching beneath her heels, dust billowing up from the dry streets as the wind whistles. Then, all at once, she hears it--

Someone's crying. A child. The smell of blood lodges itself firmly up her nostrils and suddenly she's _running_.

Yennefer turns corner after corner, sprinting through unfamiliar streets as she chases the sounds of muffled sobs and the tang of iron. She skids to a stop at an alley-way, settled soundly between the tavern and the village walls. Jaskier is crumpled in the dirt, coughing up blood and teeth while the blacksmith stands over him- fists red and alcohol tainting his breath. From the ground, her kid looks up, bruised eyes swelling with so much _relief_ and _love_ as he reaches out to her with shaking fingers.

_"Mom--"_

He chokes on a whimper as the blacksmith stamps on his back with a thick, meaty leg and then all Yennefer sees is _red_.

_(She carries him back, cradled in her arms like the greatest treasure in her life as she lets magic flow into her shaking fingers. There's blood everywhere, viscera and gore and bone hanging in her hair and sticking to her skin. She wears it like a trophy, and pays no mind to the horrified villagers._

_Instead, she runs to her little shop. Yennefer brushes her finger-tips over open cuts and purple bruises. They seal shut with a hiss of chaos, and she wipes away the blood with a damp towel._

_Yennefer promises to look after him this time.)_

* * *

Jaskier wakes up and all he sees is violet irises, black hair and necklace dangling in front of his face. He rubs his aching cheeks, yawning widely as he mumbles out a quiet, "Mom? What are you doing out here?"

She stares back at him, dark bags pulling down on her sunken eyes and sallow cheeks. "..Mom?"

Oh.

_Oh._

_Oh no, he said the 'M' word._

It's all coming out now. He takes a deep breath in, and hopes she doesn't kick him out like his family did. He thinks that, this time, it'd actually break him.

"I-I mean," he fidgets with his fingers, hissing as they twinge painfully in his panicked fumbling, "You-- I... I wish. I wish that y-you were my mother. N-not that you'd want a son like me, cos' I'm dirty and gross and yucky, b-but I think anyone would be lucky. T-to, to be your family, I-I mean, Yennefer. Ma'am. Witch-lady."

Yennefer stares at him, and Jaskier fiddles with his necklace. His little heart is thundering away in his chest, and he hopes, prays, _begs that she doesn't throw him out, not again, please--_

"Mother."

His head shoots up.

She smiles at him tiredly, holding his hands between her warm palms. "Call me mother. Or mom."

Jaskier feels like the sun's rising in his chest, and he feels a great big warm smile settle over his face. "O-okay. Okay! _Wow_ , I have a mom now, and she's the best one in the whole wide world! Hey, we should get some berries to celebrate, don't you think?"

Despite the exhaustion on her face, Yennefer laughs brightly and wraps her arms around his shoulders. "Of course, Jaskier. We'll get some berries, and then we're leaving this droll town."

Excitement fills him with energy, and Jaskier can barely contain himself as he practically vibrates in her warm hold. "Oh, oh, oh! Really? We're leaving! Cool! Rad! Can we see dragons? Phoenixes? Can I get a _pet_ dragon?"

Looking up from where he's burrowed into Yennefer's side, Jaskier watches with wide, wondrous eyes as she ruffles his hair fondly and tucks him in close. "Of course, kid. Faeries and djinns and adventures await, you dared to doubt me?"

He squints up at her, little face scrunched up in utter certainty. "Nuh-uh. I'm a smart kid, you know, I never doubted you for a second, cos' then you'd yell my head off! But now you gotta pinkie promise! It's the _rules,_ mom."

Yennefer pulls back and stares at him. After a moment, she slowly raises her hand and hooks their pinkies together.

"I promise."

* * *

Years later, Destiny throws a bitch-fit.

Geralt's floundering. Jaskier's dying. The witch is angry.

What does a man have to do to get a bard to fall in love with him without dying, holy fuck--

Wait, the witch is angry. Why. What. He didn't even _say anything yet._

"What did you _do_ ," the hot witch glares at him, and it's terrifying but also still _super hot, but Jaskier's fucking dying right now, he really needs to get his head out of his pants-- "to my son?!"_

Uh.

He looks awkwardly between the two. There's absolutely zero resemblance. There's something shiny around her neck though, it's almost similar to--

"Adopted," she helpfully supplies. 

Ah.

That explains the necklaces.

"...Fuck."


	2. Oh, shucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's wanderlust is an encompassing, untameable thing. His capacity for friendship even more-so.
> 
> Suddenly, befriending a witcher doesn't seem so strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are actually honest to god sweethearts. and now im writing another chapter of this instead of my main fic like i shouLD PROBABLY BE DOING AA

Jaskier's new mom is _amazing_.

She's pretty and strong and caring, with scarred wrists and purple eyes that look like flowers. Her hair is _long_ and _soft_ and she wakes him up in the morning by tickling his nose until he sneezes awake. He picks them berries and apples and fruits from the bushes as they walk, sneaking spare scraps of food to the little cat hiding in the tree and the birds on the branches and the cows around the farmland they pass through--

Don't look at him like that, they were _hungry_. Anyone else would've fed them too!

Mom's doing something in town again. It's some spiffy place called Snoresville, located on the peninsula of Boring-As-Bricks and between the villages of Nowhere-Fun and Something-Or-Other.

He thinks those are their names, anyway. He didn't really care too much, to be honest.

Anyway, so she's in Snoresville and left him in camp, and now he's in the forest! Surrounded by big trees and hills and there's also a _lake_ nearby, which is super cool. It's too cold to swim, though, and Yennefer said he shouldn't swim or else she'll need to buy him new clothes. _Again_.

She sounded so exasperated when she said that, as if buying things for Jaskier _isn't_ a privilege. Which it _is_ , thank you!

Now Jaskier's sitting here, staring at a bright blue sky with puffy clouds, wondering what he should do. He can't look for dragons here, cos' there's no caves or mountains. Phoenixes like volcanoes, so he can't look for those either. Faeries, maybe? Maybe. What about mermaids?

...Hey, that's a great idea!

 _Ooooooh,_ and they're _sparkly!_ And _shiny!_ Jaskier wants to pat himself on the back, but he can't reach that far, so he just scratches it on a tree. Adapt! Improvise! Something else!

What was he thinking about again?

Uh.

...Eh, he's sure it was stupid anyway. Jaskier's gonna go make a sand-castle, then when mom gets back, he'll make her the queen of the lake and give her a crown made out of nymph bark, godling teeth and mermaid hair!

•••

"Two crowns."

"Six."

" _Three._ "

"Four and a crate of healing potions."

Yennefer snorts derisively, neatly tucking away her coin-purse and herb-bag. "Those potions are worth their weight in gold, carver. Try again, and make it worth my while this time."

The woman scowls at her, weathered face wrinkling in displeasure as she shoves the lute at her. "Pah! Fine, damned _witches,_ a blight you all are on good business. Three crowns and a healing salve. Final offer."

Smiling beatifically, the sorceress places her payment on the counter with an air of finality, "Pleasure doing trade with you, Ingrid, as always."

Ingrid's violent fist shakes the counter as she punches it, but the witch doesn't even bat an eye, "Fuck off and get out of town already. Everyone's scared enough already without _you_ here to make it even worse! Out!"

She rolls her eyes, but turns away regardlessly. Yennefer tucks the instrument close to her chest, letting magic sing along her fingertips as she swipes her thumb over the lute's neck. When the witch pulls her hand away, _'Jaskier'_ is engraved neatly in swooping, golden cursive. Perfect. She slings the strap over her shoulder, beating down the smile pulling at her lips until she _finally_ struts out of that horrible river-side village.

Good _gods_ , finally. She can't wait to leave this miserable cesspool behind. If she were a lesser woman, she'd sigh in _relief--_

But she doesn't, for obvious reasons. Instead, Yennefer just walks faster, dust kicking up beneath her heels as she begins to hear the sound of vivid laughter brush against her ears. Something in her stomach loosens, and the tension along her shoulders disappears.

Then, she hears a shout, the splash of water and _silence_.

Yennefer walks faster.

The quiet weighs like an anchor.

She _runs_.

Yennefer breathes out, panic abating and relief flooding in when she finds Jaskier surfacing at the water's edge, giggling like a little girl while he holds a pretty rainbow-scaled fish in his stubby fingers. It smacks his face with its tail, and he topples back into the water with a screech.

It's amusing.

The siren that pulls him back to shore, however, proves to be a lot _less_ amusing.

The witch stares at her, and she stares back. Chaos flickers around her fingertips like an old friend, and a vicious protectiveness surges up her throat like an inferno. The siren, likewise, flicks it's tail through the water in threatened agitation, fangs peaking over plump red lips as a hiss works its way out of her pretty scaled throat. Wings break through the water's surface, glittering like golden pearls, eclipsing them in shadow.

Two predators glare at each other, magic weighing down on the air like a fog. 

Jaskier looks between the two, holding tightly onto a webbed hand, before waving it around like a trophy. The battle of wills ends, and they turn to him, startled, but too adoring of the boy to question it.

"Mom," he proudly exclaims, "This is my daughter, Inkie!"

_I beg your pardon?_

Yennefer fixes the monster with an incredulous stare, and the sorceress doesn't bother stopping her palm from meeting her forehead when the creature just shrugs. Already tasting defeat, she snaps her fingers and the lute disappears. He can get it when he's being _less_ of an immense brat.

She tries not to scoff. Yeah, as if _that_ would ever happen.

"You're ten, Jaskier."

"I can feed her berries and apples and cherries and grapes and--"

"-They're carnivores."

"Gesundheit!"

"If it helps," The siren speaks up tentatively, "I didn't agree to this either."

Surprise, surprise!

It doesn't help.

_(By the time it comes for them to leave, Jaskier's charmed a pod of sirens with his parcels of blueberries, tales of mystique and his sunshine smile. They leave with freely given lamia scales weighing down her pockets, strands of mermaid hair carefully wrapped as a parting gift. Her son cries when they start walking away, snot dripping from his nose and ugly tears filling his eyes._

_At this point, it's just natural to pick him up and let him cry into her shoulder as they walk._

_He sniffs, wiping at his face with his sleeve, "Do you think we'll see them again?"_

_Yennefer hums, the pads of her thumbs swiping under his red eyes and cleaning away the tear tracks._

_"Well, you saw me again, now didn't you?")_

* * *

Yennefer is having a horrible time. A truly terrible, no-good, _dastardly time_.

The sorceress had come to this stupid no-name village in the hopes of getting some better shoes for Jaskier but, _of course_ , a murder occurred as soon as they walked in. A man toppled out of a nearby tavern, vomiting blood and guts as purple veins stretched from his eyes. A cyst was building on his neck, close to bursting, and Yennefer barely had time to cover her brat's eyes before the damned thing _exploded_.

She _still_ had pus on her robes, for gods' sake. It's disgusting.

_(Jaskier is untouched though, if a little wide-eyed and spooked. No, she doesn't fuss over him. She just... hugs him. And brushes the hair out of his eyes. And rubs the tears off his cheeks._

_Shut up. He's cute, it's not her fault.)_

Some screaming, some running, some crying tavern wenches later, she'd procured them a room at the local inn. Yennefer gave the kid a stern talking to, made sure he had enough food to last the night until she came back, and told him to _not move. At all._ If he does, she'll drop him off in Kerack and leave him.

_(Jaskier started crying and she didn't know what to do._

_"W-would you really?"_

_He sounded so weak and fragile and hurt and, and, and--_

_-And she hated herself for causing it._

_Yennefer crouched to the ground, hands wrapped around his shaking shoulders as she pulled him against her chest. Something in her throat made it hard to speak, and there's a strange pricking at the edge of her eyes. The quality of her voice is hoarse and rough, like tearing parchment and splintering doors, "No, no I wouldn't, I'm-- I'm sorry, don't cry- shh, it's okay. I'm here. You're okay."_

_"P-please," tiny fists bunched up the fabric of her dress, "I-I'll be_ good _, I p-promise."_

_Her heart thumped painfully._

_Silence. And then--_

_"You're perfect already, Jaskier.")_

And, of course, that left her here. In the alderman's house, sipping wine and glaring daggers at a portly older peasant cowering against his high-backed chair. The man's fingers were death-locked around the chair's arm, going bone white as he lifted a quivering glass to his lips.

Ugh.

 _Men_.

Yennefer slams her drink down on the long-table, donning a sanguine smile when the alderman startles and drops his wineglass. She flicks her fingers, amused, while her magic grasps the falling cup and slowly levitates it down on the table. The man goes pale, sputtering and he nearly falling right out of his chair, "Sorceress, there's no business to be had here, please--"

_Lie._

"A villager dropping dead in the middle of the town square, just another ordinary day? I'm _sure._ " She hides her smile behind the rim of her glass. "And yet, a pretty little birdie told me that there are quite a few empty graves to fill. My, what a _startling_ revelation, wouldn't you say?"

"I-I have no idea what you're talking about, witch. Who told you such lies?"

**_Lie._ **

"Why, _you did_ , Josev."

Violet gleam like shards of amethyst, and there's a presence of _otherness_ radiating from her that makes the air vibrate. When Yennefer smiles, it's a terrible thing with a mouth full of daggers and a predator's stare, "And you're about to tell me _so much more_."

He practically leaps out of his chair, but her magic keeps him locked in place.

"Indulge me, sir," she stands from her chair, the furniture tipping over and falling to the marble floor with a crash. Prowling around the table, finger-nails digging into the table-top, the witch finally reaches him and carefully tilts his head up. Droplets of wine stubbornly stain her lips, glittering like fresh vermillion. "Would you like to play a little game?"

Josev whimpers. "No."

**_Truth._ **

Unfortunately for him, he didn't have much of a choice.

_(The game ends when the alderman breaks under the pressure._

_"You came here with a kid, didn't you? Fuck off out of town and you can have him back, this ain't any of your business."_

_Yennefer freezes. Her hands twitch around the stem of her wineglass, and the windows around them_ shatter _. Glass rains down on them, glittering like pretty gems, and she doesn't hear the screams of the maids as ice seeps into her brain. There's cotton in her ears, static fizzing away behind her eyes, and something twists--_

_-they'll-hu **rt** -h **i** m **-t** he **y** 'll- **hurt-him-they'll-hurt-him-they'll. Hurt. Him--**_

_She stares into that portly coward's eyes, and all she sees is Jaskier in one of those empty graves. Frosty fingers climb up out of her throat and digging into her windpipe, and there's rage in her belly, and there's chaos in her hands, and there's so much p **a** i **n--**_

_Something explodes, and all she sees is ash and fire._

_Later, Yennefer strides out of burning mansion on a hill, tossing silky raven locks over her shoulder. The night is filled with the mayor and alderman's screams, while the rest of the villagers look on with grim satisfaction._

_She's not done yet though._

_Yennefer rides to the mayor's basement, shoving aside crates and barrels of fine wine until a weighted, trapped and locked cellar-door stares up at her. With a twitch of her finger, it explodes._

_A dozen scared girls and boys stare up at her, faces pale and bruised. Bloodied collars clutch at their thin necks, chaining them to the wall._

_Ugh._

_Gods, she really_ is _turning soft, isn't she?)_

•••

Jaskier's a wee bit lost. Just a tiny bit. Practically the _smallest of_ _smidges!_

He thinks he's in a forest. Or maybe it's a swamp. He knows for certain that it has _trees,_ though. Like- _lots_ of trees. Biiig, taaaall, preeeetty trees! And there's flowers! _Purple flowers!_ He's pretty sure that they're wolfs-bane blooms, so Jaskier makes sure to cover his hands with his shirt as he plucks off a couple of sprigs to bring to his mom. She's gonna be _so_ excited! They've been looking for these for _ages_.

Not that he knows why she wants them, considering they can't eat wolfs-bane, but oh well!

...And not that he knows exactly where she is at the moment, but she wouldn't leave him behind. She's his mom! And she said she'd never leave him behind, so _there_.

_(Right?)_

Of course she won't, that's bad. Very bad. Who'd want to leave _him_ behind, anyway? He's amazing!

_(He can name a couple people who would.)_

Wrapping the flowers in twine, Jaskier tucks them away safely in his satchel. He walks further into the woods, staring at the little birds up in the trees and the glowing insects rising up from the grass. They scuttle over his skin, tiny antennae tickling exposed flesh, before diving back into the air. One little bug hangs back as the others disappear through the bushes in a wave of orange, buzzing in front of his nose insistently.

He blinks. The glow bug blinks back. He raises a hand for the bug to rest on, and its small twitchy legs brushing against the hair on his arm. Its eyes are big and bulbous and black, with a thorax ribbed with bumpy spikes and a bright, glowing abdomen. 

It's pretty. Jaskier wants to poke it.

He pokes it.

The weird thing buzzes, and he gets the distinct feeling that it's amused for some reason. It makes some strange vibrating noise that Jaskier _thinks_ is a laugh, so he starts laughing too. He doesn't really _know_ what's funny, but something must be! He keeps laughing, cos' he's lost and confused and scared but laughter makes everything better, right?

He pauses.

Unless if it's laughing at him. 

Jaskier scowls.

In that case, _rude._

...He misses his mom, he bets _sh_ _e_ wouldn't laugh at him. Wait-- no, no she definitely would. She's an adult. But he likes her because Yennefer hugs him and gets him gifts and gave him! A! Lute!

-Yeah but she's still a stinky _adult_.

But the lute!

_But--_

Okay, yeah, he still misses her. Jaskier would prefer to be with her, then without her. Maybe the bug will help? It can help, right?

Nah, bugs are stupid. And tiny.

...Unless?

_Naaah--_

...

He's gonna ask it anyway. "I'm lost," Jaskier admits tentatively, voice softer than a whisper. "I can't find Yennefer, she's gonna be _sooo_ mad. Some guy went _'pop!'_ in the town we went in, and she told me to stay in the inn."

It rubs its forelegs together, head tilting up at him questioningly.

Jaskier squints. He _thinks_ it's asking him why he left?

Or maybe it wants yoghurt. He has no idea. He thinks it's the former, though.

"Some ugly guys came into my room while I was looking for rock trolls under the bed. They left, then I left cos' I got bored!"

The bug stomps a long, quivering angrily.

"Don't look at me like that, of course I moved! I was _bored_."

A scolding buzz.

"But I need _stories!_ I can't make songs out of floorboards, you know."

It huffs. At least, he _thinks_ it huffs.

Look, Jaskier might be the _coolest, bestest,_ most _fantasticest_ and _specialest bard_ in the world, but he can't speak bug, okay?

"Of course I wanna' go back! B-but I, uh... I don't know how. Don't tell Yennefer this, but I'm... kinda a lil' bit scared- just a teeny tiny little _smidgeon--_ "

He gets the distinct feeling that it sighs at him. It bounces on the back of its hand, then swiftly takes to the air- disappearing over the bush. Jaskier startles upright, stumbling after it blindly, "H-hey, get back here! You can't just play me like that, you _cad!"_

Jaskier can't believe it! He pours his _heart_ and _soul_ out to this little guy- and it _abandons him!_

That's not even mean, that's just rude _._ Though, it does beg the question: do bugs have manners? Do animals have manners? What about trees? Plants? Frogs? 

Oh no.

What if _vegetables_ have manners? _Gross!_ Maybe that's something he can ask the glow bug, it seemed like a pretty smart guy! Definitely smarter than _adults_ , anyway.

Boring, mean, ugly, grumpy _adults_. Bleeeugh--

Wait, he needs to find the bug first, though!

A couple seconds of useless floundering later, the bug pops back over. It sways in the air, bright golden light filling the clearing, and it's antennae wave at him pointedly. Jaskier blinks owlishly, mouth open wide, before a sunny smile takes over his face.

"Okay, I'm coming! Wait for _me--!"_

_(There's a piece of him, hidden deep beneath sunshine and bright green moss, that wants to shove the wolfsbane up the ugly men's noses. He wants them to choke on it, bleed on it, then watch them go 'pop!' like the village-man did._

_Around him, the trees creak. The wolfs-bane in his pocket hisses._

_Jaskier laughs, and something in the woods prowls.)_

•••

They meet at the edge of the forest. Yennefer nearly falls over in relief, covered in ashes, and opens her arms wide. Jaskier surges up to meet her, wrapping his stick-thin arms around her middle as he nestles his face in her stomach. They stand like that, letting each other's presence wash over them like water.

He's safe. He's _okay_.

Her son is fine.

Pulling back, she cups his face in her hands. "You're alright? No cuts, no bruises? They didn't get to you?"

She had made sure to make their deaths particularly memorable.

Just in case.

Jaskier grins, cheeks smooshed together as the witch flutters around him nervously, "Nuh-uh! As if I'd ever get caught by _those_ bunch of morons. Plus! I had friends to keep me company!"

"Oh?" Yennefer smiles despite herself, something in her stomach uncoiling when he laughs up at her. "What kinds of friends? They aren't hiding from me, are they?"

He wraps his arms around her neck, pulling insistently until she rolls her eyes. Despite being ten years old, Jaskier's practically an honorary twig and about just as tall, his growth stunted from being malnourished despite her best efforts. He continuously complains that she's feeding him too much, even though she _isn't_ , thank you very much.

She's read twenty-five books already on how much food a growing boy needs. She knows her shit, thank you very much. Not that it's actually _working,_ because the brat's still about as thick as a sad blade of grass.

Oh well, she'll figure it out. Until then, Yennefer's going to stick with the usual creed of, _'v_ _egetables fix everything, Jaskier!'_

Yennefer picks him up easily, cradling him in her arms as she tweaks his nose. "You're going to get spoiled someday," she gripes, brushing hair out of his eyes, "I treat you too well, considering you keep _running away_."

Squirming, Jaskier only stares up at her with a wide, sheepishly innocent grin. "It wasn't my fault- honest!" He huffs, scowling as he turns away, "Blame those fat guys, it was all them!"

Yennefer only laughs, settling him around her shoulders. He crosses his arms on top of her head, resting his chin on top as he waves at the forest in front of them- a single golden light bobbing closer from between the blobs of darkness. Jaskier points at it, excited beyond all sense as he gently tugs on his mother's hair.

"Look, mom! It's one of my friends. Hi, mister glow bug!"

"Yes, yes, very impre--"

She stops.

"...Mom?" 

From within the woods, a deer's skull hovers amongst the brush. The antlers stretch high, scraping the tree-tops and tangling with the branches as it stares at them. The glow bug hovers at the forest's edge for a moment longer, before disappearing into the skull. Seconds later, an eerie yellow light fills its eye-sockets, ominous buzzing filling the air as wolves howl beyond the horizon.

Leshen. Of _course_ there'd be a Leshen in the forest, why the fuck _wouldn't there be--_

"-That's my other friend I met, too! Bye-bye, Skully, thanks for taking me to my mom!"

Uh. "What?"

Yennefer stares at it, keeping a careful hand on Jaskier's knee as he nearly topples over from his exuberant waving. Then, against all myth and rhyme, the Leshen waves _back_.

"They took me to a big tree with glowing water," Jaskier nods firmly. "They give good hugs." 

She blinks. She pinches the bridge of her nose. The Leshen is still there. Fucking... _waving_.

The world used to be normal. What _changed_.

"Right," her voice is high and pitchy and she doesn't fucking _care._ "That's... that's _nice_ to know, Jaskier. I think it's time for us to leave, don't you agree?"

"Mhm, I'm hungry! Hey, do you know why that guy died in the village?"

Oh.

_Right._

A strangled noise wretches it's way out of her throat. How does one explain _'the alderman and the mayor were harboring a slave-ring under their mansion and poisoning all the villagers that were investigating where their missing children were disappearing off to'_ when it comes to a very small, very _innocent_ child?

Fuck.

Shit.

Uh--

"...Indigestion," Yennefer chokes out, "Always chew your food properly, or you'll fall over and die."

Good enough. He's stupid, he'll believe it.

" _Wooooooah--_ does this mean it's better to skip my vegetables?"

" _Always_ eat your vegetables."

"But _mooooom--"_

"Don't even try."

_"-MOOOOM--"_

* * *

Geralt's first thought about the inn's entertainment?

The bard on the stage is annoyingly elegant.

The boy's fingers glided over the lute strings like water down the creek, slipping from note to note, skipping from octave to octave, with not even the barest signs of strain. It's uncanny. It's impossible. It's putting him on edge. Some vindictive part of him hopes that he falls off the stage, or gets ale on his pretty face, or just _something_ that's mildly unfortunate because what the _fuck_ , some people in the world just get _everything--_

He's not jealous.

No really, he's not.

One hundred percent, Geralt is perfectly content with his lot in life. Pissed-in ale starts tasting alright after the thousandth pint or so and, really, it's stranger to _not_ be stoned out of a village at this point. All in a day's work.

But... _still_.

Flitting between the tables, there's an undeniable sense of magic that fills the tavern as the bard twists and dances from patron to patron. Every eye in the tavern is drawn to him, joining in on the song as they throw coin after coin at him. 

Geralt scowls and takes another sip of his ale.

Gods, it's disgusting.

...Fuck, the bard has actual wine in his goblet _._ Surely, he wouldn't miss one little sip-- _No. Stop that._

He settles for glaring at the sucker instead. If all bodes well, the man will trip over and fall right out the door to his unfortunate demise. Geralt's good at glaring; really, has it down to an art-form. Once, the witcher glared at Lambert with such intensity that the cocky fucker tried to tackle him, missed, and then went soaring out the keep's window into a snow-drift. And that wasn't even on _purpose_.

The bard, as if sensing his intent, turns to him with a dazzling smile and winks. Gods, he's so pretty--

_No._

He glowers at the bard suspiciously, hunching over his table before taking another sip of his ale- trying hard not to gag. Geralt feels like his face is on fire and, _really_ , surely that implies the bastard up on stage is a sorcerer. A witcher doesn't simply feel warm when winked at by a particularly pretty, graceful, _really really hot bard--_

The witcher clasps his hands together and presses them to his lips. He's being mind-controlled. Surely. _Obviously_.

...Right?

Subtly as he can, Geralt takes a peek at his medallion, expecting to see the little wolf's head to be thrumming away against his cuirass. It's still. As if to spite him, the metal edges nick his fingers when he reaches up to flick it, causing little droplets of red to swell up on the tip of his index.

Fu--

"Hey there, stranger!"

Geralt startles, smacking his skull against the back of his chair, _"Fuck!"_

The bard blinks at him, reaching out with concern as the witcher stoically tries not to let it show that he just gave himself a concussion. Ah yes, there are _five_ bards now. Fantastic.

Fuck. He could barely handle one.

"I'm sorry, are you alright? I just wanted to check if you were having a good night, whilst brooding away in the corner of a tavern. Alone."

Damnit, he's _nice_. Geralt glowers."Fine. Go away."

The five bards smile and, because the world hates him, they all take the same seat at the table. Wait, there's only three now. Geralt squints, trying to figure out which one to stare at, before promptly giving up and staring at the blue blob that he _thinks_ is the window. He probably looks mysterious and cool and shit--

"Why are you staring at the barmaid's dress?"

Ah, so that's why the blurry splotch was moving. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his ale. "Hm. I wonder."

"She's fifty years old."

Fuck.

...He's done worse for himself, honestly.

He really doesn't want to be here. Is it too late to start on his contract?

Unless...

Ah. He has an idea.

Geralt slowly turns, shifting his considerable bulk around as he positively looms over the bard across from him. Narrowing blazing, red-speckled golden eyes, the witcher's nose twitches as the pungent smell of the bard's curiosity twists up his nostrils. Lips turning into a dangerously sharp, fang-tipped smile, he crosses his arms and leans against the table.

"Gwent?"

When in doubt, scam clueless pretty-boys out of their wealth. Words to live by.

•••

"I can't believe this..." Jaskier breathes out, looking shell-shocked as he follows the witcher out of the tavern, pulling at his hair in panic. "You took all of my coin! _All of it!"_

"You did the bet."

"How was I meant to know that you were an unrivalled god of both painted cards _and_ silver blades?" Jaskier groans, sniffing as he watches Geralt check over his tack and prepare a strong-legged bay mare for travel. "Really? No reaction at all? Sir, you've practically _robbed_ me."

The witcher stands from where he's cleaning the horse's hooves, brushing the hay from his legs. He turns, brows shooting up upon seeing he's still there, and grunts. "The only thing you're robbed of is your intelligence. Move."

Jaskier's jaw drops open as he stands there dumbly. The man sighs before carefully nudging him out of the way and pulling his gear off the fence.

"Y-you! I-uh-- This-- ugh! Mother's going to _kill me!"_

"Not my problem," Geralt shrugs, finished with throwing the saddle-blanket over the mare's back as he starts strapping the saddle down. "Close your mouth."

The bard closes it with a glower. _"Fuck_ _you_."

Snorting, the witcher gives him a firm smack on the shoulder- watching with veiled amusement as Jaskier nearly tumbles over at the force. He flushes because, really, no man should be _this_ good looking. Except for Jaskier, of course. He gets it from his birth-mother, bless her soul.

"Next time, perhaps."

_UhhhHHH--_

"I-I, ex- _excuse me?"_ Jaskier splutters, reeling back as a familiar heat clawed at his face. _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the ever-loving **fuck--**_

Well. He's not exactly opposed, but the guy should at least buy him dinner first--

Geralt grunts, "You asked."

Huh.

Okay then. He pinches himself but all he gets is a blazing pain in his arm, and dust-clouds kicking up in his face as the man's horse takes off down the road, witcher and all.

That fucking _cad_.

 _"Bastard!"_ Jaskier screeches indignantly, wiping the dirt off his face then waving his clenched fist. "I'll catch up to you and then I'm getting my _fucking_ _money back,_ you pig-headed _brute of a man!"_

All he hears is the howling wind, the fluttering trees, and a deep rumble that could be laughter.

•••

"I hate you."

"Fuck off."

"Oh trust me, I would. _But,"_ Jaskier jerks against the ropes holding him in place, "it looks like I'm a bit tied up at the moment."

"Ha ha," Geralt snaps back, twisting his head around to glare at him with a molten gaze. "Very _fucking_ funny. Maybe you should change professions."

"Maybe I should. You know, silver swords always did call to something in me. Maybe I'll run you out of a job, dearest witcher mine."

"You'll die."

"Oh yeah?" Jaskier grits out, "you mean like how we're about to die, _right now_ _,_ because _someone_ gave the very sick elf a bleeding nose?" The fact that it was after she kicked him is left unspoken.

Better for all parties involved, surely.

"Watch your tongue, and I wouldn't need to." The man behind him growls, yanking at the bindings and knocking their skulls together while Jaskier squawks at the painful collision.

"Oh, sod off, you harpy!"

There's a beat of quiet; a peaceful lull in the warring. And, like all peaces, it doesn't last.

Surprisingly, however, it's _Geralt_ who breaks it. "Want to hear a poem?"

Jaskier sighs, sounding long-winded and greatly pained as he mumbles. "I dare-say that I don't have much of a choice, my grumpy companion--"

"Jaskier, Jaskier. Voice like a crow, and a one-inch cock down below."

There's a heavy silence, until-

_"You take that back."_

Geralt just snorts.

"That wasn't even a fucking poem, you illiterate, sword-wielding, behemoth of a man! My cock is of a brilliant length--!"

In the doorway, Filavandrel pinches his nose as the pair's bickering echoes off the walls. Toruviel massages her temples, gritting her teeth together as their grating voices thud behind her eyes.

"Why won't you let me shut them up?"

"Trust me," The king says wryly. "You do not wish to meet that one's mother. Let them go."

"Fila--"

"Hush, we have preparations to undertake. I've already secured us passage down to the south."

Toruviel jerks from the sight of the witcher digging an elbow into the bard's side, eliciting a screech from the younger man. "Wait, what? How?! You said it yourself, we have no choice!"

"Ah..." Filavandrel's lips twitch, stretching into a mysterious smile as he looks at the shimmering amulet hanging from one of the prisoner's necks. "Let's say that a certain violet-eyed nightingale didn't take kindly to her son's treatment. She made a deal, and I'll leave it at that. Let them go."

She stands there for a moment longer, frozen, as something similar to hope blazes in her chest. "Are you certain?" Toruviel whispers, eyes suspiciously wet, "we really have a chance?"

A warm hand clasps around her shoulder, sinking through the rough fabric grating against her skin. "Pack your things, dearest. Go."

And, like the ruler he is, Filavandrel floats back into the room in a dance of fabric and ethereal grace. The outsiders jolt into silence, Toruviel watching with fond eyes as her lord commands their co-operation with a single flick of his hands.

Smiling, she wipes the blood off her lips and turns away.

Perhaps hope lives after all.

•••

Jaskier looks at Geralt. Geralt very pointedly stares at Roach.

"Huh... Alright. That happened."

The witcher just hums, checking over the mare's legs and hooves as he runs a comforting hand down her neck. Jaskier would almost say that it was cute if it weren't for the fact that he could snap him like a twig. Which is really just kind of hot instead.

Fuck.

"So..." Jaskier stretches out the word, coyly flinging an arm around the man's tense shoulders. "Me and you, out on the road, fighting ghouls and griffins and all manners of fiends, what do you say?"

Pausing in his gentle ministrations, Geralt gives a grand show of thoughtfully staring off into space. Then, he shrugs him off. "No."

"Perfect! Let us be off-- wait, pardon me? Excuse me! What do you mean, _'no'?"_

"No. Fuck off. Die elsewhere-"

The bard pinches the bridge of his nose, watching balefully as the witcher breezes past him and resaddles Roach. "You really are an immense cock, you know that, don't you?"

Ahead, the mare snorts and Geralt tone turns dry, "Comes with the mutations."

Jaskier freezes. "W-was that--? D-did you just- make a dick joke? _Geralt."_

What a horny bastard. He almost feels _humbled_ , really.

The witcher hooks his foot in the stirrup and heaves himself upwards. With a click of his tongue, Roach rocks into motion and wanders back onto the path. Hurriedly slinging his lute over his shoulder, Jaskier rushes over to catch up.

"G-Geralt, slow down! You can't just _leave me!_ _"_

Ahead of him, Roach speeds up into a trot.

"Geralt! You fucking arse!"

She disappears over the horizon. Fuck.

_"THROW A KNIFE AT YOUR BITCHER, O' VALLEY OF CUCKOLDS--"_

* * *

_"Geralt."_

_"Bard."_

_"You're my newest muse, congratulations! I will now proceed to follow you around, sing fantastically catchy songs and reveal to the world just how_ much _of a soft-hearted little squeal of a man you really are! You're welcome, by the way. No payment required, just an endless litany of praise."_

_"Jump off a bridge."_

_"Oh, you just say the sweetest things. Wine?"_

_"No."_

_"Suit yourself!"_

_"...Pass the pitcher."_

_"Hm, what was that? My nearest, dearest, most beloved companion, did you need something from me?"_

_"Jaskier."_

_"Hm?"_

_"Pass the fucking pitcher."_

_"This is the start of a beautiful friendship, I just know it! I can feel it in my chest that we're going to be the best of friends--!"_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 1: geralt is a chaotic good trying to act like a lawful neutral and thinks he's a true evil but really he just needs someone to hold his fucking hand and tell him he's pretty guys
> 
> from a number of one to ten thousand, how many pixar movies do u think i watched before writing this fic
> 
> ..ok. now multiply that number by at least twenty-five and then you're probably close
> 
> im a very child-friendly soul at heart ok. im a WIMP. im WEAK. i like SOFT GENTLE LOVING THINGS. if i could spend an entire day watching httyd and brave i WOULD.


	3. Quick, roll a twenty!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a look at the past, Yennefer struggles. Jaskier helps her hug it out. 
> 
> In the present, Geralt apparently listened to Sweater Weather as a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10k words later it's finally here im sO SORRY
> 
> btw if u haven't read the geraskier scene at the end of the last chapter that i added in a week or so ago, that's there now. mainly just covers their introductions and blah blah blah. i dedicate that scene to mickaela191. i saw ur comment, and u have them to thank for me going back and adding it on <3

Yennefer massages her temples, slamming the last weather-beaten tome shut as it lead to yet _another_ dead end. Behind her, Jaskier is splashing around in the mud with an imperial manticore, sunshine and laughter echoing down the castle's abandoned corridors as he busies himself with painting swirling patterns on its tail. The manticore huffs, bemused, and looks down at him indulgently from where it lays; yellow eyes glowing. 

She didn't sign up for this monster shit in Kerack, what the _fuck._

Collapsing into an old, stone-carved throne, Yennefer leans back into the chair and stifles a groan. The monster had been with them for two nights now, supposedly guarding the castle, and all it'd taken was Jaskier crying at her to _'please please please don't hurt him, he's my bestest friend in the world, he wouldn't hurt a fly!'_ whilst hugging the damn thing to be settled enough to not _rip it apart_. You know, like a _normal_ sorceress.

In hindsight, it really had Just been another average Friday.

Of course, because she loved that stupid pink-skinned gremlin, Yennefer decided not to skin the thing alive, and _how_ does it repay her? 

It repays her by licking her. _Incessantly_. Like a fucking dog-- and she _hates_ dogs. They're annoying, flea-ridden fur-machines that make her robes itchy, and reminds her of sleeping in hay-bales, grain in her eyes and mud in her apron. Honestly, she prefers the manticore to the damned mutts; at least it's covered in scorpion carapace.

She's a simple woman. If it has fur, she hates it. Plain and easy.

But yes, onto the real reason why Yennefer's in this pitiful excuse for a castle; figuring out what is up with Jaskier's inherent connection with beasts. She's been chasing lead after lead once it became apparent that he wasn't just _incredibly lucky_ after the seventh friendly encounter, and it's driving her half-mad in stress. So far, she's only been able to figure out two things. One, anything classed as a necrophage or wraith is immune to his magical friendship powers, which was discovered after a very disgusting encounter with a pack of ghouls. Two, creatures with high-level intellect are hit-or-miss, depending on their personalities.

A pod of naive, slightly murderous sirens? Apparently yes. A vampire hunting at night, looking for a meal? _Gods no_.

That very night was the first time a sentient creature rejected her son's friendship. It was also the same very night that she discovered when they reject him, they did so _violently._ That being, with a great deal of _screaming_ and _roaring_ and _crying_ and-- gods, it had been _awful_. Like nails on a chalkboard. So it'd been with _great_ _pleasure_ that Yennefer burnt that sucker alive, all the while with Jaskier trembling like a leaf behind her.

She might've made its death a little bit more excruciating than usual, just for that. 

On the other hand, whenever one of them actually accepts her son, that's a whole other can of worms, that. Really, at this rate, she's more concerned that those buggers will start actively trying to adopt him instead of, you know, _killing him_. Like a good _normal_ monster that _doesn't_ make her headache or feel like she's being _judged_ for her _parenting_.

Yennefer's not too sure if that's better or worse, frankly. The worst part is that she can't kill them without Jaskier ignoring her for five days. The sheer _nerve_ of him.

 _Kids,_ man. They really do tie you down.

But all of it just swirls together into a whirlwind of questions and doubts: how long will this last for? Is it permanent? Is there a consequence to it? Will it hold indefinitely, or will it fail when he needs it most? Will Jaskier be able to use it to his advantage, or is it more trouble than its worth? Just _where_ does it originate from?

_(--Is it affecting her? Does she truly love him, or is this because of magic? Is any of this real?--)_

So many questions; so many origins. The hedge-mages she's had the displeasure of discussing it with have been less than helpful; a blessing is a blessing, they all said, no matter it's form. Just take it and accept it. 

One doesn't simply _accept things_ from the universe, especially not when you're a fucking _mage_.

There's an ebb and flow to magic; everything must be drawn from somewhere. The five Sources, even one as inaccessible as the fifth element, always pose their own dangers. Maybe this magic didn't even originate from the Sources, maybe it was proof that he was of Elder heritage. Suddenly nervous, Yennefer does a quick flare of her magic, deftly twitching her hands as she gently tides her power against Jaskier's essence. It pulsed like a steady heartbeat, bright singing gold and healthy mossy green. Strong it might've been, the potential there in terms of magical growth... Source, yes. Elder Blood? Thank the gods, that's a definite no.

And, honestly, she's glad for it, otherwise she'd be beating the Brotherhood off with a stick. A big, fiery, _deadly_ stick that she'd gladly _stab them with_ and _roast them on a spit over Aretuza's smoldering remains--_

-Uhm.

Moving on.

A demonic bargain, maybe? A payment made by his birth parents, passed down their lineage to their unwanted child? Gods, what if Jaskier _is_ the payment? What if he's going to get taken away from her, ripped apart by trans-dimensional raging entities?

_Hm._

Her fingers twitch anxiously, nearly tearing the aged parchment at the very _thought_ of Jaskier, locked in hell-fire, paying for the sins of his family. Yennefer's face twists into a horrific snarl, violet eyes wide and _burning,_ the book turning to ash in her scorching hands.

She thinks the _fuck not_.

"Mom?"

The embers blow away in the wind, twisting in its current, and the tension lining her shoulders melts away. Yennefer turns, crouching down while Jaskier's voice echoes in the ruined castle halls. He stares up at her with wide, guileless eyes- reaching out to hold her hand despite the flames still burning in her palm. 

He trusts her so much it hurts sometimes. The fire curls around his fingers shyly, warm to the touch but too cowardly to scorch, before they flicker from existence.

Yennefer wipes the snarl of her face, smoothing the angry lines over while a blessed sense of contentment soothed the stress in her chest. "Jaskier, what are you doing over here? Run out of mud?"

Kicking at the dirt, the boy looks a little shame-faced as he tries to wipe the mud off his cheeks. "Ma! I wasn't playing in the mud- I was painting Skorky and making him all nice and pretty, and did you know his favorite color is brown? Me neither, I think it's a super ugly color, but he likes it, and--!"

Gods have mercy on her.

Behind him, the manticore rumbles its entertainment; the sound quivering in her bones and setting all of her teeth on edge. It'd be adorable if it didn't threaten to make the castle fall apart, but alas.

"Jaskier, kid, calm down. I only have two ears, and you're about to talk both of them off. And, really, did you have to name him _Skorky_ , of all things?"

He blinks up at her, innocent as the summer sky. "He likes it! Right Skorky?" The monster hums, trotting up to the duo and licking at Jaskier's face. Tongue roughly the size of a small pony, all the thing truly succeeded in doing was lathering the poor soul in a thick layer of slobber.

"Ewwww," the boy groans, trying (and failing) to wipe the saliva out of his eyes. "That's _disgusting!"_

Yeah, no shit kid.

With no small amount of amusement, Yennefer twists her hand and makes a sharp movement with her fingers- swiping all of the muck off of her son's clothes and condensing it into a small ball, sending it hurtling out the nearest window. "If you want to stay clean, you probably shouldn't keep such _un_ clean company. Come on, up you go."

He thinks she can't see him flagging, leaning against her legs with fluttering eyes. He might be able to fool his big monstery friends, but not her.

"Mooom!" Jaskier protests sulkily, nevertheless reaching up to her with thin, gangly arms. "I'm a big kid now, you don't need to carry me around all the time!"

'I'm a big kid now,' he says, after spending the entirety of last night making her play patty-cake with him because he was bored. Yeah, _sure._

Yennefer fixes him with a pointed stare, gently flicking his nose as she hoists him up and cradles him against her chest. "I've seen dogs bigger than you, squeaky."

"They were obnoxiously big!"

"They were labradors _."_

"Gesundheit! You know mom, you really need to stop making up words. Not everyone's gonna' believe you like me!"

Oof. Yeah, alright that was cute. Fuck, that one got her right in her ice-cold heart.

She can't hold back the laugh that bubbles out of her, bright and joyous and _genuine_ as Jaskier looks up at her with such pure _honesty_ and _trust_ in his eyes. Yennefer turns away from the books at long last, replacing her bout of mirth with a warm smile, venturing out to brush an uncertain finger against the manticore's face. Skorky reacts with a pleasant rumble, a purr that roars deep in his chest, and her son leans over to smack a big, wet kiss on the monster's nose. "I'll come back someday for you, Skorky, okay? I'll have a farm and everything where you can stay, and we can all be the of bestest friends forever and eat apples forever and ever and ever and _ever--_!"

Hm. Uh. Yeah, _about that._

The mage hesitates until Skorky just nudges her hand with his head. There's a flicker of intelligence in those sickly yellow eyes, a glimmer of resigned acceptance. There's no happy ending to this meeting, and it's something that she's thankful her son is blind to.

It's always the same.

A villager will go missing; monster or murder, it matters not. There will be a beast in the area; terrifying and deadly, a perfect scapegoat. A witcher will come, brazen with steel and silver, stumbling across a contract for each of Jaskier's strangely docile friends. And then, those creatures that her son loves with such a burning passion, they will die; heads chopped off and exchanged for crowns in a backwater village.

Oddly enough, the thought makes her stomach churn.

She tightens her grip around Jaskier, as if to protect him from the truth of the world as she purses her lips. Sometimes, Yennefer wonders how many deaths are truly monster hunts. 

...Damnit. She's meant to be a frigid bitch, what the hell is happening to her? She's not meant to care about starving little kids on her doorstep, nor their stupid little fluffy friends--

"-Right mom?"

Yennefer blinks out of her thoughts, meeting his exasperated gaze. "Pardon, dear heart, could you repeat that?"

He has her wrapped around his finger and he doesn't even _know it_.

Remember when she used to bully kings and queens and smoosh mud in Fringilla's hair? Yeah, neither.

"You and me," Jaskier sounds out slowly, making sure she's following along with suspicious, squinted eyes, "are gonna' get a nice big house in the mountains, inside a fjord or something, and we'll have an apple farm and a berry farm and a grape farm and all kinds of farms- no vegetable farms though, because they're icky- and then we'll be best friends forever with everyone and we can have a birthday party every day!"

Snorting, she raises a single primly plucked brow. "Would you like a waterfall to go with that? Perhaps a crown?"

He taps his chin, pudgy face scrunching up in sincere thought. Finally, he shrugs and just buries his face in her neck, stifling a loud yawn against her shoulder. "Hmmm.... nah."

She doesn't know whether to be disappointed or not, frankly.

Isn't it meant to be every brat's dream to be a king or knight or something? To be the main character of the play, with enough power in their fingertips to command nations? Gods know that's what _she_ wanted; so desperate for choice and control, wanting the strength to rip it out of someone's life and place it in her own, regardless of the consequences. Is that normal? That's normal, surely.

...Is it?

Shit.

"Oh, and why is that?" Yennefer adjusts her hold on him, keeping a tight lid on her concern as she rests her chin on the top of his head. "Don't want diamonds, entire kingdoms kneeling at your feet?"

She'd do it for him in a heartbeat, really. All he needs to do is say 'yes' and she'd have the entirety of Aedirn at his feet. Maybe Kaedwen. Cintra too, Lioness be damned.

"Nuh-huh." Jaskier mumbles, fingers gently curling into the manticore's fur when Skorky gently snuffles into his outstretched hands. "No pretty things, jus--" he cuts himself off with another gaping yawn, settling once again in her arms with a content sigh, "-just want friends. Be happy. Have fun. Just wanna' b-be... with... family..."

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh, that's just not fair, no one in this world is meant to be so pure and loving, he's ten-years-old for fuck's sake. Yennefer stands there for a while longer, smoothing his hair back as he slips into rest. She wipes a smattering of mud off his cheek, unwilling to fend off the small smile the stretches across her lips at the soft snores he makes.

Gods, she loves him though. She loves him so much that she'd burn the world to ashes if he asked her to. Anything to make him happy, anything to keep him safe. This motherly bonding business is some seriously intense stuff, Yennefer's discovering.

"A house in the mountains, huh?"

She...

She can do that.

Her magic seeps out from her skin like a mist, stretching out over the forests, the plains, the grass-- slipping along the winds howling over the tops of the northern mountains. Chaos sings in her ears like a loving melody, dancing and twisting to her whims as a portal slowly hums to life in front of her. Skorky huffs, brushing against her legs with his side before circling the whirlpool of magic cautiously.

"Come, beastie," Yennefer commands with a flick of her head, already stepping through the maelstrom of chaos. Reality stutters within a mirage around her, swirling like a vortex of wet paint when the magic pulls at her stomach. She keeps her fingertips pressed against Jaskier's head- easing the headache and roiling stomach as he settles back into a restful slumber.

He always did hate going through portals, nausea aside. 'It ruins the adventure,' he'd told her once, pouting and grumpy, 'what's the point in going if we don't meet new friends on the way?'

She holds that thought close to her heart, watching the world meld back into reality as Yennefer exits the portal. Before her, a verdant vista lies in hiding. Snow-peaked mountains loom over them, whistling with the wind and the distant cries of griffins, ice surrounding the small valley in a circle of majesty. A clear cyan river glimmers like crystals in the spring sun, water crashes into it from a nearby waterfall nestled between a crevice in the ice, mist and foam spraying into the air. From her vantage point, the age-eaten remains of a cabin, old and rotten, nestled at the top of a hill. All around them the woods sway within the whispering breeze, the scent of pine-cones and snow-berries drifting up her nostrils like a pleasant memory.

Not her style; not at all. Not enough gold-embellished windows, or gem-encrusted artifacts. There's nothing about it that screams _'power'_ and _'dominance'_ over visitors; nothing but the sweeping magic that's drifting through the tree branches. There's an aura of peace that lingers in the air, with pink blooms dancing on candy-green stalks and the cloudless azure sky above them.

Jaskier will love it. And if there just so happens to be a magical intersection in the earth beneath them, one that she can draw excessive power from in case something happens, then, _well--_

That's just a convenient bonus, now isn't it? 

Behind her, Skorky steps through the portal, anxiously sniffing her feet. Safely tucked away from the world in her arms, Jaskier doesn't even stir.

"What do you think, Skorky?" Yennefer mutters thoughtfully, eyes half-mast while she turns, taking in the picturesque scene. "Think he'll like it?"

The manticore straightens up, walking around them in a tight, protective circle as he scents the air. With a ruffle of his wings, he wanders back to them-- thrusting his snout under her hands and rumbling his content when he rests his head atop Jaskier's. Skorky looks up at her with wide eyes, glassy like fresh amber, and she daresay that he looks _adorable_.

Fuck, now Skorky's growing on her too. 

_Ugh._

"That's a yes if I've ever seen one," she adds wryly, scratching the spot between his enormous, arching horns. That settled, they both look down at the boy cradled in her eyes and, even without using her magic, Yennefer can see the way her son's essence sings in his rest. Hesitant curls of gold and green seep into the earth, lighting up in awe when it touches the lush green grass. In his sleep, Jaskier's face eases into a small smile.

Gods. Yennefer would move _mountains_ for that smile.

"Move along, beastie. Camp won't set itself and _you're_ in charge of catching dinner."

As she walks up the hill to the cabin, manticore and all, neither of them bother to watch the ground. Behind them, a fresh-petaled buttercup sprouts from the soil, stretching up to meet the sun.

* * *

"Mom, mom! We get to stay _here?!_ Really?!"

"Well, if you don't wish to, we may always return to--"

"No! I love it! Can we stay here forever? It's so pretty! Look at the waterfall, ma!"

"Don't you get any funny ideas, brat. Now come over here, what do these herbs do?"

 _"_ Uh..."

"Don't say cultist rituals, that is _not_ a proper answer and you know it."

"They're for snacks!"

_"Ugh."_

"Can I eat it? I'm gonna eat it--"

"No! Spit those arenaria petals out right now!"

"-eww, gross, yuck-yuck-yuck--."

"...Why am I here? Just to suffer?"

* * *

Yennefer flicks the page in the tome, the candlelight cutting her face into harsh lines as she hurriedly scribbles notes down on the sheets of vellum. Through the library's stained-glass window, late afternoon sunlight filters into the building, skirting around the dark corner she'd tucked herself into earlier.

Fucking _Novigrad,_ of all places. This is what she's resorted to.

Sickening.

Rubbing at her eyes, the sorceress flicks the book closed and shoves it further down the table. Pulling another from the pile at her feet, Yennefer throws it open and scans the index. Hydromancy, divination, bloody _tyromancy_ , of all the blasted things. She pinches the bridge of her nose, rolling the tension out of her shoulders, before finally finding the page she wanted.

Telempathy. Thank the gods.

Around her, the scattered tomes and scrolls litter the table. 'Heraldic Animals,' 'Beasts of the Tukaj Foothills', 'Art of Magic', and even that thrice-damned book 'Magic and Power' that she'd had to memorize in Aretuza. Beyond those, many more titles are stacked up on the floor beneath-- all of them more useless than the last.

She scans the passage, hope quickly dwindling as it proves to just be the same repetition of the last vague shit from five books ago. With a growl of frustration, Yennefer shoves the book away from her, snuffing out the candlestick with a twitch of her fingers.

Nothing. She's been stuck in this musky library for days, nestled in this sinful _hellhole_ of a city for even longer, for a fat load of _fuck-all_.

Leaning back into her chair with a sigh, Yennefer runs her fingers through her hair to ease the annoyance. She's here for a damn reason, and she's not leaving until she gets some answers _goddamnit_. That reason being, of course, her hunt for knowledge about Jaskier's particular... gifts. Which have struck again, because why not, and landed a basilisk in her front-yard, nearly destroying her lovely garden of herbs because Skorky just _had_ to come out of the woods and get territorial. A tackle, a roll and a scrap later, the two beasts managed to take down at least _half_ the forest in their scrabble for dominance.

Which was just _fantastic_.

Everything got sorted out as soon Jaskier started crying. One moment, the place was a war zone and then, next thing she knew, the basilisk and the manticore were suddenly the _bestest of friends,_ with Jaskier bull-dozing ahead and finally deciding on a name for the damn thing. Lazur.

At least he's getting better at naming them.

Sort of. Relatively speaking. 

...Not really. Not at all. He tried to name it 'Princey' before she intervened. _Princey._ She loves him, genuinely, but come _on._

With a groan, Yennefer throws an arm over her eyes. At this rate, she can knock off telempathy with all the other failed ideas. At first, she'd thought it was some form of inverted magic, but crossed it off because the externally channelled pacifism was far too costly on his reservoirs. If Jaskier was doing that constantly, he'd be dead. Then, she'd had the idea of Jaskier being some form of psionic, who could communicate with the monsters using telepathy and ease their minds-- but that was a dud as well. It'd explain the basilisk and manticore, both being pure animals without sentience, but it _didn't_ explain the sirens on their first venture. Going on the same line of thought, she'd thought that telempathy, _surely_. 

But no. It's not telempathy. In fact, similar to telepathy, it just wouldn't have worked on the Leshy, period. All it would've given Jaskier is a bleeding nose, a splitting migraine, and a pissed off tree-monster dead-set on eating him.

All of this research; all of this backwash slumming, just for her to be right back at where she started. Suddenly, the chances of it truly being some sort of bargain with a cross-world demon is scarily likely.

Which is, honestly, just the cherry on top now isn't it.

Yennefer rises, pushing the chair back; the books around her begin to float back into their appropriate places with a twist of her fingers and a painful jolt of her knuckles. Then, she's sweeping down the halls of shelves towards the door, leaving not a scrap of paper out of place. If all's well, her son should still be waiting at the Kingfisher Inn for her. She shoves the doors open, breathing in the refreshing breeze of baked goods and sea-spray, then abruptly stops at the threshold.

Why, pray tell, is Jaskier running from a gang of knights?

"Hey mom! Love you, mom! Gotta dash, mom!"

Ah.

Novigrad's security force, Eternal Fire hooligans. She takes a moment to inhale, calmly, through her nose. Opening her eyes, she lets out a glorious string of words that echo damningly around the silent town-square, villages and merchants alike frozen in wide-eyed terror.

"Ugh. The stupidity of men never ceases to astound me."

They're never coming back to Novigrad again. _Never._

•••

He's having the time of his life! Maybe if he asks his mom super nice next time, they can come back here again?

As Jaskier ducks under another armored man's arms, he takes the time to whirl around and poke his tongue out. "Try again, loser! That's what you get for being _poo-faces!"_ He watches gleefully as another man soars over his head, crashing into a wagon of produce.

Serves them right for selling _vegetables_. Retribution always comes! Even to capsicums and onions and carrots!

Wait, no-- _especially_ to carrots!

Ignoring the distant cry of _"my cabbages!",_ Jaskier skidded on his feet around a tight corner, the cobblestone dangerously smooth against the soles of his boots, before coming face to face with a dead-end. He blinks; once _, twice,_ then turns around to the alley's entrance. Already, a templar's broad frame fills the empty space, and he remembers Kerack, next to the tavern, listening to muffled music through wooden walls as big meaty fists turned his cheeks to mince. 

He swallows harshly. Suddenly, this isn't so fun anymore. On the slick side, it looks like he managed to lose the rest!

On the not-so-slick side, it only took one last time to nearly kill him.

Jaskier pauses for a moment. 

Darn.

...Nah, Yennefer will save him!

-wait, oh no, _Yennefer._ Oh heck, oh dear, oh _fiddlesticks_ \--

He gulps. Mom's gonna kill him if he dies!

Scuttling back, Jaskier looks at the end of the valley. There's a bunch of stacked crates and barrels, with an open window at the top of them. He can hear people talking in there, so it could be a tavern? Maybe an inn? Maybe he shouldn't climb up there, he doesn't want to interrupt anything--

"Oi! Get back here, you little swine!"

Nevermind. Squeaking when the templar charges with a loud warcry, waving his lamia around like some kind of flag, Jaskier leaps onto the precariously balanced planks leading from stack to stack. They shudder under his feet, creaking in protest as he hops between them-- he's so _close,_ fingers curling around the window frame, he just needs to climb through and he's home-free! He pulls himself up, catching the barest glimpse of something gold and shiny, but he's too distracted to care because he just can't _wait_ to tell mom about his daring escape--!

A hand latches onto his ankle, and it takes everything he has in him to hold in his scream.

"Got ya'!"

Oh, _bollocks._

•••

"Let go of me, you big dumb adult! What, did your mama not give you enough milk and you gotta start stealing it from little kids? For shame! My ma's gonna come beat your head in, fill it with brain-eating worms and then we'll see how _you_ like it!" 

When Lambert returned from a hunt, he didn't expect a kid screaming from his window-sill. Gods. It's like Kaer Morhen all over again, except instead of himself it's some six-year-old _brat_ with lungs the size of a bear's.

In essence; he's too fucking old for this shit.

Breathing out slowly through his nose, Lambert heaves his pack off the floor, re-slinging his swords over his back. Nothing for it, he'll just get another room. Witchers are on a tight enough rope in this city as it is, if Lambert interrupts the Temple Guard... Well. Chances are that none of his brothers would be allowed back in. Novigrad is full of jobs and contacts, losing it would just hamstring them even more than usual. It's too important to risk; especially for some street urchin caught thieving.

Not that he really gives much of a shit about half his brothers, but _unfortunately_ Aiden and Eskel would murder him, so. Damn.

"Get _down_ here, boy, or I'll force you down!"

His shoulders are suddenly tense, muscles rigid. The key to his room feels like ice through his glove, and the boy's nails scratching against the wood sound like his own during the Trials, scraping against the tiles and stones. 

Fuck.

"I-I didn't even do anything! Let, _go!_ Ma! _Mom!"_

Creaking fills his ears and when Lambert looks down, his brows shoot up at the sight of his leather-clad fists tremble at his sides. He slowly unfurls them and, with a sigh, stares at the ruined key sitting in the palm of his hand. The metal is warped and unrecognizable, looking more like a crushed pretzel than anything else. Great, now he has to pay for _that_ too.

The kid's still yelling. His heart squeezes strangely in his chest.

Is this... guilt?

Oh _fuck._

Don't do it, Lambert. Don't you _fucking_ dare.

There's a shrill echo of clinking metal, the tell-tale sound of a whip unfurling. Behind him, the boy's struggles redouble, nails digging into the wood and the smell of his fear invades Lambert's nostrils, leaving the foul taste of mint and ashes behind. Cold and ruinous.

He dares. Of course he does. He belongs to the _nice Witcher school._

Lambert scowls. Geralt's morals always did piss him off.

Striding forward, the witcher reaches out and grabs the boy by the scruff of his shirt. Careful to keep out of the guard's sight, Lambert yanks the kid through the window-- just in time to avoid the lamia's strike. He watches with bated breath as the serrated edge narrowly misses its target, burying into the window's wooden frame instead of a boy's back. Fingers twitching into Axii, Lambert peers over the threshold and locks eyes with the dry-mouthed guardsman staring up at him.

"You've decided to fuck off after you lost the boy at the market. You're thirsty and pissed, so you spend the rest of your shift in the company of Crippled Kate's madame and her whores."

Not even bothering to stay for confirmation, Lambert slams the window shutters closed and waits for the guard to wake from his magic-bound stupor. A moment passes, then a frustrated shout. Followed swiftly by a _very_ disgruntled sounding sigh, the sound of iron-greaves clanking away on the stone pavement fade as the templar walks away. A relieved exhale wounds its way out of his throat.

So maybe this _won't_ be a disaster after all.

Setting the child back on his feet, Lambert quickly steels himself, eyes drifting close in resignation as he waits. He wonders for a moment if the will scream or throw something first. Judging from the vicious insults he was slinging before, the witcher would put his coins on the latter option.

The brat's like a feral little twig, so at least it'll be funny and heartrending at the same time, as opposed to _just_ heartrending.

He waits for the screaming. The crying. The cloying fear. He waits for the ashes to burn in his nostrils like fresh cinders, and for the mint to choke his lungs with icy frost. He waits.

"Hi there, mister! My name's Jaskier, thanks for saving me from that stinky adult. Hey, we should look for my mom together!"

Lambert blinks, reeling back. "...The fuck?"

Suddenly frowning, the newly dubbed 'Jaskier' levels him with an unimpressive glower. "Don't say that, it's a bad word! My mom says I can't say it because I'm not big enough yet, so you can't either."

Uh. Okay then.

The witcher crouches down, settling back onto his haunches. The boy's so scrawny that, even while crouched, Lambert still towers over him. Jaskier remains unphased however and just looks _very_ disappointed. All it really does is bring back memories of his fencing teacher, and getting knocked back onto his arse in the snow.

Fun times.

Scrambling for a proper response, he yanks back on the urge to bare his teeth. Instead of a defensive snarl, he manages to choke out a terse, "whatever, kid."

He's not very good at this. He's really not good at this.

Fuck.

Other witchers? Easy. Hunters? Sure. Geralt? _Ehhh--_

But _children?_ That's a straight no, chief. 

The quiet barely manages to last a minute before the squirt's talking again. "What's your name? Can we hold hands? You have funky eyes. Have I said that my name's Jaskier yet? Because that's me! My name, that is! Jaskier the Amazing Singing Alchemist Troubadour!" The boy does a quick movement with his hands, eagerly gesturing at himself with _flair_ and _pizazz_.

Uh.

Lambert suddenly wants to be anywhere but here, what the _hell._ "Eat dirt- I mean, no. Don't you have, uh... parents or something? What are you, six? Five?"

"Nuh-uh, I'm ten! And of _course_ I have parents, _duh_ _,_ " Jaskier grins, showing off the gap in his front teeth with gusto, "I have two! I haven't seen my father and mother since I was small, though."

...Oh.

The witcher just shook it off. Too late now to feel bad. "They dead?" He winces a bit.

 _Yeah_ , he's really not doing too hot with this.

"Nope!" The kid beams. "They locked me out of the house and wouldn't let me back in. They might be dead, though, who knows!"

Alright. Cool. The kid's fucking insane, good to know. Lambert flounders for a proper response, feeling well and truly out of his depth. "Uh, that's... nice." _What the fuck, Lambert._

"Mhm! That's how I got to meet my new mom! She's amazing, you'll like her."

Holy shit, this kid's crazy.

Lambert's brows scrunch together and, without further ado, buckles his sword-sheathes onto his back. "Is that so," he grinds out, warily looking between the boy and the door, "I'd love to meet her, _really_ , but I've got to leave, so I guess I'll never see you again. Such a shame."

A real convenient darn-tootin' _shame_ , that.

"Awww," Jaskier whines, tugging at his pant leg, "do you have to go? We could go exploring together! Look for sirens and mermaids and godlings and fairies _and--"_

" _Yes,_ " The witcher manages to say through his grid-locked teeth. "Need to go... Make some fuck-- _flipping_ friends and shit- I mean, and stuff, with, uh... gold satchels." Where's Eskel when you need him? Out of the whole keep, _he's_ meant to be the gentle one. Lambert's the designated asshole, Vesemir's the disgruntled uncle and Geralt just... stands there. _Menacingly._

It's fucking _weird._

"Oh... Okay, that's fine. W-we can do it another time, right?" The kid, honest to the gods, looks like he's on the verge of tears. "That's fine. I just want my ma. Can you find her?"

Lambert breathes out through his nose, the air dispelling from his nostrils in an angry stream of air. He wants to tell him to fuck off and leave him alone, but he's just a _kid._ An abandoned kid, to top it all of. It reminds him of... he purses his lips. _Perhaps,_ he decides, staring at the way Jaskier's eyes are glued to his scarred, calloused hands, sticking close to the window and nervously twitching his fingers. 

The scent of misery smells like mould; it clings to Jaskier's flesh like a second-skin beneath the natural scent of vanilla-laced berries.

No. _No._ Lambert, you did your good deed for the day, _don't you dare--_

"I... I want my mom, mister. P-please?"

Fuck.

The brat brings back memories of himself, before Kaer Morhen. Before the Law of Surprise. Before that disgusting _disgrace of a father_ \-- he purses his lips, the rage burning so brightly in his lungs that it feels like fire. It cools, dying down to meek embers when he glances at bright, sky-blue eyes, full of innocence that he hasn't seen in...

In his entire life, probably.

"...Alright, fine," Lambert's voice is fifteen octaves too high and he definitely sounds like he's being strangled. He's no good at kids, but he already toes the line between man and monster enough, no need to be a complete _arse_ on top of it. "She can't be too far away."

Surely. _Surely._

He just wants a nap, for fuck's sake.

Jaskier looks up at him, eyes rounder than the moon, before his face morphs from quiet resignation to a bright, blinding expression of delight. "Wow- wow! You're nice, mister, I like you. I think we're gonna' be super good friends, just like me 'n my Ma! Here, I've got a thingie for you, hold on, it's a pretty thingie, it's right in my--" 

Lambert watches for a moment, entertained with watching the brat runs around in circles trying to grab at the sack on his back. After a moment of victory once it lands in his hands, Jaskier digs through it zealously- hissing and oo'ing before _finally_ pulling a small clay ball out of his bag. "Here, take this! It's our friendship gift, so now we're _officially_ friends."

Uh-huh. Alright, sure.

Whatever floats your brigade, kid.

Reaching out with careful fingers, Lambert fishes the bandage-wrapped canister out of the small, uncoordinated hands. He eyes the insides closely, taking an experimental whiff- _sulfur, phosphorous, hellebore petals-_ then abruptly jerks back, wide-eyed in a strange mixture of horror and incredulity. 

Why the fuck does a _ten-year-old_ have a shitting _Dancing Star bomb?_

"I made it myself!" Jaskier chatters on happily, waving his arms around theatrically, and holy _hells_ Lambert is so glad he took that bomb off of him. "Ma showed me how to do it, and it took a long, long, _looong_ time for me to get it right, but that was my first good one! Mom was very proud. She kissed me right here," he taps his cheek, already crinkled up in a bright smile, "and then we got to eat pork! I like pork, but mom hates it. She says it's stinky and she doesn't like where it comes from, but she made it for me because she was super proud--"

"That's great," Lambert cuts in quickly, still puzzling over the literal _bomb in his hand_ , "Is this why the guards were trying to grab you?" Holy shit, did he become an accomplice in a murder or something?

Jaskier blinks at him, looking far too innocent. "No, I told them that I had a daughter called Inkie, and that she had a pretty fishtail. Do you want to meet her, mister? I think she'd like you, you're funny!"

Fishtail. Daughter. What?

For gods' sake, he's _ten_ for crying out loud.

So it was then, while he was holding a deadly firestorm bomb and glaring at a kid, that Destiny decided that it was the perfect time for a raven-haired, violet-eyed beauty of a woman to kick the door open. Lambert barely had time to whirl around before there was a dagger angled at his crotch and a hand sparking with flames held startlingly close to his face. When she spoke, it was with a voice filled with fire and brimstone, husky with breathlessness and raspy from rage.

Translation: by Melitele's bouncing tits, she's _hot_.

"Step away from my kid, puppy, or you'll lose those family jewels you wolves prize so dearly."

-oh. Oh, she's crazy.

_Oh._

Still hot though. The blue-balls don't lie, even if their sanctity is currently being threatened. Again, this is exactly the reason why he leaves the nice guy shit to Eskel and Geralt, _damnit!_

•••

Yennefer hums quietly under her breath as she drags a whetstone along her dagger's silver edge, razor-sharp eyes glued to the witcher hissing at him by the door. Jaskier sits with her on the bed, kicking his short legs back and forth, nestling into her side with a happy sigh. The cold rasp of stone against metal echoes in the tense silence; not even her son daring to break it. Really, the whole thing brings back some lovely memories for her; men and women alike cowering at her feet, heads bowed and necks bared.

And, judging by the wolf's sulky glare, she's still got that _'magic touch'_.

She can't help the smug smirk that stretches over her lips, ignoring the yellow stare burning a hole in her head. "So," Yennefer starts off sweetly, never once breaking eye-contact, "what's a yippy dog like you doing in a _big, bad_ _city_ like Novigrad? Run away from your owner, did you? Do I need to get a druid on-hand?"

Oh yeah, Yennefer thinks, gleefully watching the witcher's fists quiver with rage, she's still got it.

"Fucking self-absorbed _witches,_ " he hisses out balefully, eyes narrowing into burning slits of loathing. "You think the whole damned world's your playground. What, you steal the kid because you were _lonely?_ Did you mind-control him too? Magic users always had a fondness for _toys--_ "

He's cut off as he plucks the flying dagger out of the air, fingers wrapping nimbly around the leather-bound hilt seconds before it embedded itself in his neck. On the other side of the bed, Yennefer stares at him with a haughty twist to her crystalline features; harsh and beautiful and terrible all at once. Jaskier watches it all unfold with a wide-eyed stare, hands curled around her arm in a vice while he meekly stares up at them. "Mom?"

Shit.

Breathing in, she ignores the snarling beast in front of her and leans over to press a gentle kiss to the tip of Jaskier's nose. "Are you alright?" Yennefer asks softly, worried fingers checking his face and wrists for any bruises. In her grasp, her son just swallows, loud enough for her to hear, and presses in closer.

Her brows scrunch together, concern pouring out of her in droves. He's quiet; he's not meant to be so _timid_. "...Were you afraid that I wouldn't come back?"

There's a beat of silence and then, a hesitant nod from the head pressed against her chest.

Fuck.

"Jaskier..." Yennefer rests her chin on top of his head, running her fingers through his hair to reassure herself that he's here, he's okay, he's _here._ "Jaskier," she repeats firmly, jaw tense and eyes oddly stinging, "I'll always keep you safe. _Always._ "

The room is quiet for a moment, filled with nothing but their soft breathing and the creak of leather in the corner of the room, then, "You p-promise?"

His voice is wet and high enough that it grates painfully on her eardrums, but something about it is just so fragile that her heart _aches_.

It's at this moment, she realizes, that she'd do anything to make it all better again.

"I promise, little dove."

A couple of moments pass and then, in a whirlwind of movement, he buries his face into her stomach and whimpers. Small bony shoulders quiver beneath her hands as she soothingly rubs her son's arms, gently rocking him back and forth. "Shh, it's alright, mother's here now, see? You're okay, I've got you. I'll never leave you, Jaskier, _never_. Not even the gods could keep me away."

Sometimes it was easy to forget how lonely he was. There are moments when Yennefer's out in the woods for longer than she'd think, and when she arrived back at the campsite all she'd see is Jaskier hunched over the fire, staring listlessly into the flames while Skorky whined in his ears. There are days when she forgets that she's not alone anymore and disappears for hours on end, zipping from town to town, and abruptly remembers too late to come back to check on him. Sometimes, it's just so easy to forget the reason why she stole him away.

It's hard, she admits to herself in the solitude of her mind, it's hard being so important to someone else. It's nothing like the halls of Aretuza or the nobleman's courts, where there's blood and lies in every corridor. Instead, it's soft hands and tiny heartbeats and the steady uncertainty of no being good enough, followed by the palpable twinges of _guilt._

Sometimes, late at night, it scares her. The idea that someone is so important to her that she'd willingly break bones, crush cities, murder families for their happiness; usually, it's the other way around.

Distantly, she wonders if that makes her a bad mother.

Yennefer isn't someone who should be trusted with a life as small and precious as his but, by the _gods,_ she'd do anything to make it up to him; to make him feel safe again.

She loses herself in the warmth thrumming through her veins and the familiar weight of her son in her arms. The din of Novigrad's merchants ebbs away, leaving nothing but Jaskier's heartbeat in her ears. The smell of damp hay and water-bitten wood becomes overwhelmed by the familiar scent of vanilla, gooseberries and spring. 

It almost feels like home. The only thing that's missing is Skorky's rumbling purrs.

"Wholesome. Very wholesome. Can I fuckin' leave now?"

Oh for-- fucking _Witchers!_

And, just like that, the moment broke. Yennefer pulls away with a frustrated sigh, baring her teeth in a vicious snarl as she snaps back at the annoyed Witcher in the corner. "By all means, squander away. Take your filthy stench with you as well, mutt."

"Call me mutt one more time, witch, I dare you," he hisses out through a tense jaw, golden eyes blazing like a torch-sconce. "I'll show you just how much of _animal_ I am when I rip your throat out."

Cute. Very cute.

She wasted no time in jumping to her feet, spine straight as steel while chaos itself danced obediently along the tips of her fingers. A familiar heat flickers in her chest, stoking the hellfire flames that make up her heart, and Yennefer doesn't even bother to keep up appearances anymore. "Such chivalry!" She titters, relishing the look of barely restrained violence on his face. "I wonder if your innards would look better than your outer; granted, it's not a very strong competition."

For a moment, they both forget about the child in the room. The sound of a sword leaving its sheath echoes in the small room, and Yennefer can't help the vicious smile that lays claim to her lips.

Her eyes are nothing but a sliver of amethyst, cruel and cutting as she starts to circle around him. "Hit a tender nerve, did I?"

"Vicious thing, aren't you?" The witcher growls out with a threatening depth to his voice, stepping into her circuit with tense shoulders that roll with mountains of tightly coiled muscle. "The only thing you're hitting is the floor, beheaded like the common viper you are. Maybe I'll present it to the alderman, I'm sure there's some coin out there for a _pretty lady_ like you."

Yennefer's fingers flexed, hooking into dangerous ember-rimmed claws. Her voice is soft as it hangs in the air, deep and deadly, nothing but a dangerous whisper. "You can certainly try, dog."

There's a beat of stillness, of two predators staring at each other with cutting eyes and severe grins; the calm before an inevitable storm. The room is full of tension, thicker than the blood pulsing in their veins as their bared teeth glinted ominously in the red-washed light of the setting sun. 

A breath. A pause. A flash of light on steel. Then--

"Can we go home, mom? I'm hungry."

And, just like that, Yennefer slumps over in defeat. "Sweetie, please, mom's trying to threaten someone--"

"He's my friend though," Jaskier frowns, blatantly judging them. "You said you wouldn't threaten my friends. You promised."

Lambert pulls back, snorting. "Yeah lady, you _promised_. Is this any way to treat your guests? For shame."

She flares back to life with a hiss, flame and amethyst and sharp edges, "I'll show you to an early _grave--"_

"Mom!"

"Jaskier! Just this once, it's justified! He _kidnapped_ you!"

"Mom, he saved me, so that means he's my _friend._ F-r-i-e-n-d!"

"Yeah mommy, we're friends."

"You're dead. Jaskier, close your eyes."

"Mom, no!"

* * *

It's been months since he first met Geralt, and the man _still_ holds him at arm's length.

It's... strange. Jaskier is abruptly reminded of his mother when they first met in Kerack, how distant and careful she'd been around him; so terrified he'd break in half at the slightest touch. The witcher was much the same, minimizing touch and dancing around him in the mornings, shying away whenever he got too close. 

But that's okay! Patience, love and loyalty, that's all there is to it! 

Hopefully!

Maybe!

Fuck!

For the love of the gods, please! Someone throw him a _fucking bone_ _!_

In no way belying his current thoughts, Jaskier busies himself with singing softly under his breath as he moved around the camp. Dancing around his witchery friend, he sets a bundle of kindling by the fire-pit the other man has dug out, arranging the sticks and twigs accordingly. From the forest, Geralt emerges-- deer carcass slung over his shoulders and blood dripping down his neck, golden eyes glowing like the dusk evening sun. Jaskier freezes for a minute, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, while a faint dusky pink spreads over his neck. His throat is really dry all of a sudden, _hnnn--_

The primal barbarian god vibes are strong with this one, he sees.

Jaskier stifles a snort, then pointedly turns away. He starts singing again because, if he doesn't do he'll probably say something really really _stupid._

" _The dreams of young lovers are like a good wine, surprised by the richness and sorrow they’ll find--_ " he cuts himself off, pausing with a frown, "-- they find? They'll find. _By the sorrow they find--_ No, no... there's a different in the past and present tenses. Does that ruin the storytelling? Where am I even going with this? Should it sound so happy? Geralt. Geraaalt!"

The witcher grunts, the fire bursting to life with a snap of Igni. "Don't care."

 _"Geralt!_ Listen to meee--"

Slitted cat-eyes stare at him, the coin-gold irises dark in the evening shadows. "Jaskier. Do I look musically inclined to you?"

No. Yes. Maybe. Uh.

Jaskier's brain isn't responding at the moment, stand-by. "Would you kick mud at me if I said yes?"

Scowling, Geralt promptly scuffs his boot in the dirt and sends a cloud of dust over the bard's clothes with a grunt.

Wow, tetchy. Jaskier's expression falls flat and he leans back, staring at him judgmentally because, _really,_ "Just tell me what your _opinion_ is, for gods' sake! I'd speak quickly if I were you, or _someone_ might just start composing an entire song in Elder about a wolf with a stick hilt-deep up his arse."

Geralt only grunts.

Well fuck it, fine. "A d'yaebl aép arse--"

Jaskier's cut off with a squeak as the witcher shoves his giant meaty-sausage fingers in his face. Spluttering indignantly, he swats ineffectually at the hand covering his mouth, toppling over into the dirt with a loud groan. "Geraaaaalt! You've gone and painted dirt all of over me! Again! What part of 'new clothes, don't get them dirty', do you not understand?"

"Don't wear new clothes then." Contrary to his words, Geralt reaches out to grasp his forearm; hauling him upright while a hint of humor glimmers in those honeyed eyes. "Not a smart one, are you."

"A-- excuse me?! Whyever do you only become startlingly literate and forthcoming when you're insulting me, my dearest friend? My poor heart can't take this shameless abuse, you _wound_ me, Geralt, right here," Jaskier pats his chest, right where his heart is, "deep, _deep down_."

"Very deep," Geralt adds wryly. " _Inconceivably_ deep. Practically an abyss."

"By Freya, Melitele, and all the gods of the deep earth! He speaks a word longer than six letters! Quick, let me break out the wine, such an occasion is truly worthy of celebration."

"Mhm."

Well, it was fun while it lasted.

Jaskier huffs at the witcher's grunt. Crossing his arms against his chest, the bard leans back to look up at the stars. Embers fly up from the campfire, glittering specks of amber that float up to join the sky as constellations wink down at him. The wind is howling through the leaves, cold fingers dragging along his goose-bumped flesh while the clouds swirl above. Shuddering, he shuffles closer to the fire, tucking the rough-spun cloak tighter around his shoulders.

Thanks, wind. You _dick_.

He flops back onto the ground, limp like gelatin. "Geralt. _Geralt._ I'm dying. This is it; this is the end, my beloved wolf, my life-long companion, my most precious muse-"

"Jaskier."

"-No, it's the end of the road. I'm afraid by the time the moon ebbs, I'll be an ice-bound statue, rock hard-"

_"Jaskier."_

"-beauty frozen but a single moment, memorialized by nature herself in the woods! Minstrels and scholars alike will gaze upon my splendor, mourning the loss of the world's finest poet--"

He's cut off with a yelp as Geralt throws something at his face, enveloping him in a veil of cloth. "Ye' gods, help! I'm being attacked! Melitele herself will smite you down where you stand, interloper!"

"You want the whole forest to hear you?"

Jaskier whines as the package of _something_ slips off his head. He props himself up on his elbows and levels the annoyed witcher with a ruffled stare. "Oi! Be a little bit more gentle, would you? My brain is truly my greatest asset; of course, not to say that all of my other _assets_ are any less wonderful. Why, I could--"

"Just put the cloak on."

He blinks, uncomprehending. "...Huh?"

Sighing, Geralt shifts from his spot by the fire. The man nods at the wad of fabric lying in the dirt next to him, flat-eyed and mildly annoyed. "Cloak. There. Put it on before you freeze to death." He pauses for a moment, considering. "...Or don't. I don't care. Die if you want."

Okay then. Mixed signals, much.

The bard scrunches his nose before finally sitting up. Pulling the cloak into his lap, Jaskier unfurls the clothing with slow, reverent fingers, throat dry and eyes oddly wet. The material itself is a heavy well-oiled leather, lined with soft doe-skin and reinforced with silver-laced thread. The inside is a dark mahogany red, fluffed with fox fur with strips of satin around the rims. Touching the inner-pelt, gentle and pliant and _warm,_ he's suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that this is one of the nicest things he's ever owned.

So this is what Geralt had been working on for the past couple months. The crazy son of a bitch made it himself out of his hunt pelts. His eyes start to sting.

 _Hnnn_.

"Winter's turning," the witcher mumbles, hunched over the venison cooking on the spit. The tips of his ears are turning red. _Awwww._ "Getting colder. It's not pretty. Sturdy, though."

Jaskier's going to cry. He sniffles, loud enough to startle Geralt, but he doesn't even care because _he's so precious and nice and fuuuuuck--_

"I can take it back, if you want," Geralt grunts out, panicked, looking all the world like he's about to call it quits and take off into the woods. "Don't... leak your eyes out. Fuck. Stop that. _Stop."_

"Geraaaalt," Jaskier finally whimpers out, snot leaking out of his nose and face pulled into a watery smile. _"Geralt,_ you gorgeous d-deity of a man! Y-you really _do_ c-care!"

"What? No." Said man looks away, an oddly strangled noise tearing free of his throat. "I don't. Go away."

Nuh-uh. No way. _Nope._

"Awww, come here, you big idiot, give me a hug!"

_"Jaskier."_

"I love you too!"

"Fuck off."

"I never doubted our friendship for a second!"

_"We aren't hugging."_

"You _do_ love me!"

* * *

When Jaskier wakes up the next morning, it's alone, blanket tucked up over his shoulders and a morning fire sizzling at his feet. The cloak is pulled over his shoulders, painstakingly stretched to cover every inch of him. There's a basket of salted, wrapped meats lying next to the fire, topped with a full water-skin.

He draws himself upright, alone and serenaded by birdsong, but light with an indescribable warmth in his chest. Geralt's gift smells familiar, like pine-thrush, horse and iron.

It resonates in him like home.

Packing up the small campsite and tucking the rations away, Jaskier hops back onto the road, whistling a happy tune to the nightingale perched on his shoulder. A torn piece of vellum sits in his satchel, lighter than a feather, but more precious than any of the doublets hidden in the depths of his bags. Shoving his fingers into the pouch, the bard fishes it out.

_Winter's here. Going home to Kaer Morhen. Keep the cloak close, it's warm._

_See you in spring,_

_Geralt._

•••

_"Mom, mom! You won't believe it!"_

_"Jaskier, you're getting mud in the house."_

_"Yeah yeah- but mom, look!"_

_"...What am I looking at, exactly?"_

_"A letter, obviously. What, all that fire ruining your eyes? Must be the old age kicking in."_

_"Shut up, stop being a brat and eat your damn carrots. Who wrote this? An emotionally stunted mime?"_

_"That's one way of putting it, but essentially- yes."_

_"-Who names their kid Geralt?"_

_"Mom."_

_"Jaskier."_

_"That's my best friend you're back-talking. Your vegetables still suck."_

_"Julian ver Vengerberg! Eat your carrots or, by the gods both above and below, I'll fucking_ make _you!"_

•••

He spends the winter at his home in the hills, surrounded by the whistling fjords and the howling of the animals. Yennefer shows him how to make potions and poultices from mandrake roots, while he spends the nights singing all the new songs whirling in his head.

They sit on the doorstep to their cottage, wrapped in an old purple banner, enveloped in leathery wings and Skorky's warm breaths.

It's a good winter.

•••

_"Guard your heart, Jaskier. Keep it safe."_

_"Yennefer..."_

_"Promise me, little dove."_

_"You know me--"_

_"Please."_

_There's a beat of silence._

_"...I-I promise, ma."_

_"Good. I'd hate to murder someone else."_

_"What do you mean, 'someone else'?"_

_"Oh, nothing... Eat your soup, birdie."_

_"Mom!"_

* * *

Geralt descends the mountain pass, the first to leave among his brothers. Ignoring Vesemir's stare burning into his back, the witcher was quick to saddle up Roach and head back onto the road at the first puffs of spring. Leaving Kaer Morhen behind, eclipsed in the Blue Mountains to the east, he busies himself with reaching Vespaden before the next day's end.

He refuses to think about Jaskier's face, flushed pink with the night's chill that had clung to the evening air. The memory of his eyes, ocean-blue stark against the campfire's flickering light, swamped in fur and leather--

Shit.

The witcher scowls and focuses on how the snot stuck to the bard's chin, joined by the salty rivulets that had made his heart clenched and twinge like a stab wound--

He blinks.

What the fuck.

Roach turns her head and looks at him with a flat-eyed stare.

"Fuck off."

She rolls her eyes. He didn't even know that horses could do that.

_"Roach."_

The mare just snorts and throws her head back, whacking his face with her mane. Geralt grumbles, blinking the coarse hair out of his eyes with a growl. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Roach whickers, prancing along the frost-bitten road with a dressage horse's sure foot-steps. _Oh, I am,_ she seems to say, _it'd be hilarious if you weren't so hopeless._

Cat-gold eyes narrow. "No apples for a week."

She snorts, hot air billowing from her nostrils like a vent of steam. _Oh please, you'll give me one in an hour from now._

Geralt scowls. He hates it because she's _right,_ damnit.

"-eralt! Hey--!"

His shoulders tense, fingers finding the hilts of his swords as a feather-soft sound echoes along the very edges of his senses. Roach halts in her dance, ears pricking back.

"Geralt! Roach, lovely girl, it's me, _helloooo~!_ Turn! _Around!"_

The witcher stiffly grabs the mare's reins and leads her around, jaw-dropping open as a speck of purple emerges from the ice-locked path he'd just came from himself. "That's not who I think it is, is it?"

Roach just stares at him like he's an idiot. _Are you deaf, dumb or both?_

His face scrunches up, sour as if he'd just swallowed a lemon whole. "Shut up."

_Make me._

"You're a horse."

_And you're a witcher. Wow._

Geralt tilts his head back, staring listlessly up at the grey sky as Jaskier's screaming rang louder and louder in his ears. It finally hits home that he's talking to his horse; not even talking _to_ his horse, but to the mental voice _he'd given_ his horse. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, he finally deigns himself gathered enough to look back down. Jaskier's standing in front of him, but all Geralt can see is radiant sunshine, charming dimples and an endless sea of blue.

"There you are, Geralt! For a moment I thought you were on the verge of floating away into the clouds."

His voice sounds like warm honey and the Gwenllech at dawn; smooth, glittering and timeless-- Geralt nearly wheezes.

Where the fuck did _that_ come from?

"You can stand there and look pretty all you want, witcher, but you aren't ditching me this time!"

_P-pretty?!_

The air swiftly gets knocked back out of his lungs as soon as he remembers how to breathe again. Geralt pushes past the sudden urge to hold the bard close and keep him safe forever and ever-- _Uh_.

...What in the world is happening to him?

"Onwards, to the next adventure! Shall we, my dear friend?"

He swallows thickly.

...Ah, _fuck._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw u think show geralt, yennefer and jaskier were dysfunctional af, and then lambert fuckin enters the fic and blows them all out of the water with poorly managed anger and severe childhood trauma built from irony
> 
> lambert's doing his best ok he didnt get a good lot in life
> 
> he's a feral wild boy who hates literally everything besides his witcher friends and i love him just like how i love all of you, thank u so much for reading and commenting, they all make my day even if i don't have the time to reply to all of them anymore! much love, stay safe! <3
> 
> like always, this is unbeta'd and unedited except for a quick glance over, as it's something that i've just been trying to whittle away at between 10-hour shifts. if it's brainless and messy, i apologise sincerely and hope it's still a little bit enjoyable!

**Author's Note:**

> i just needed to get this out of my head ok, im sorry. maybe this will have multiple chapters i duNnO


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